The Return
by iBayne
Summary: With Kirkwall ablaze and the templars out for their blood, Hawke and her companions flee for the only safe refuge that remains - home, and the shores of Ferelden. Little do they know, a welcome party is already gathering on the coast. The Grey Wardens are ready to meet them... Post-DAII. F!Hawke, M!Cousland.
1. The Escape From Kirkwall

**Chapter 1**

**The Escape From Kirkwall**

* * *

Kirkwall was gone. That was the main thought propelling Sara Hawke on, as she followed her companions through the brush. Kirkwall was gone, and there was no turning back, no running back to the estate and burying herself in sleep. Cullen had given them the mercy of a head start, but they couldn't expect him to wait around forever...

Right now, she was rather grateful of her choice of apparel. Much as she had hated the Champion's armour when she was first given it, it was rather useful now – as she clattered through the undergrowth, she doubted mage robes would have afforded her as much protection against thorn-pricks and nettle-stings as the jagged steel boots she now wore, or the steel gauntlet over her right arm. Her left arm, however, was ragged and torn from branches and thorns – she had given up healing it a while ago, because every time she did, a new wound undid her work. Her stave, the Chanter's staff she had obtained so long ago, was also proving quite useful – the oak haft was good for flattening the brush, and the winged steel blade that formed its head cut through the thicker, pricklier vines with relative ease.

The thick vegetation almost made her miss the Wounded Coast – it was barren and forbidding, but at least there weren't _bloody _thorns sticking out of her arm. They had torn across the coast in about half an hour, and were now several miles west of Kirkwall, plunging into the Planasene Forest. She wasn't even _that_ sure where they were going. Presumably they would have to change directions before hitting the Nevarran border, and Cumberland – if word of Kirkwall's fall hadn't reached the city yet, it soon would...

Hawke glanced around at her companions as she settled into her stride, running almost on automatic. At the very front was Carver, cleaving his way through the undergrowth with his greatsword in hand, Warden armour glinting in the sparse sunlight that filtered through the canopy. Isabela was close at his heels, ducking nimbly through the forest, and keeping one eye on the sea, as instructed. Aveline and Merrill followed behind – the former was batting away stinging thorns with her shield, and the latter was darting untouched through the vegetation, as if elvhen magic was pushing it aside. Behind them was Hawke herself, then Anders a couple of feet behind, grim-faced and focused, and finally, bringing up the rear, Varric, who was huffing determinedly, but struggling to keep up on dwarven legs.

Only two of her friends were absent – Sebastian, who had stormed out of Kirkwall with the rather foreboding promise of vengeance, and poor Fenris... Despite her protestations and her attempts to turn him, the elf simply couldn't reconcile his begrudging loyalty to Hawke with his hatred of magic. He had confronted them in the Gallows, with a squad of templars, and had forced them into a fight. The only mercy for Hawke was that she hadn't been the one to strike him down – she wasn't sure she would have been _able _to, and a small part of her mind was intensely grateful that the odious task had fallen to Carver instead.

"Up ahead!" Isabela called, over the noise of rustling plants and snapping twigs, interrupting the mage's thoughts. "I see sails!"

Sure enough, as Hawke skidded to a stop beside the pirate, a trio of cream-white sails hove into view beyond the trees. The forest floor tailed off into a forbidding cliff, and before them lay a smooth bay, carved into the side of the forest by nature alone. The sweeping inward curve of the cliffs tapered down in the middle, with a carved path, hewn out of the rock, leading down to a small, golden-grained bank of sand in the innermost crook of the bay. The beach bore what appeared to be a small mooring – a walkway forged of rotting planks jutted out into the Waking Sea, battered persistently by the tide. A majestic galleon was anchored out in the sea, while further out its escort, a sleek caravel, was circling and patrolling – Hawke supposed they watching for raiders, while the galleon was anchored and vulnerable.

More importantly, a couple of rowboats, evidently dropped from the galleon, had been beached on the... well, _beach_, and there were templars ashore. There were only three, however, stood on the wave-battered jetty, and three men wouldn't need two rowboats, so presumably there more templars venturing through the forest... that thought sent a horrible jolt through her stomach, as her over-active imagination conjured up scenes of templars approaching them through the undergrowth. She actually had to check over shoulder, just to be sure...

"You got a plan, Rivaini?" Varric muttered, moving to Isabela's side. He was still puffing slightly from the run, but, business-like as ever when it mattered, he slipped Bianca from his back and joined the others in peering over the bay.

"Half of one," Isabela smirked, biting her lip. "Hawke? Do you remember Castillon?"

* * *

"_Okay..." _Isabela thought in hindsight, less than ten minutes later,_ "this isn't one of my better plans..."_

For a start, the plan - almost identical to the one they had used to reach Castillon a few weeks prior - involved Aveline taking her weapons, binding her wrists, and holding her at sword point as the two of them marched down onto the beach. Furthermore, those templars looked a lot _bigger _close up... They were gathering on the jetty, staring suspiciously at the two women as they approached.

"Hold, stranger!" one of them yelled, finally. "Who are you?"

"Guardsman Hendyr," Aveline called back, "Kirkwall City Guard."

Wow... Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes could actually _lie_. Isabela was stunned. Then, she remembered that 'Hendyr' was just Donnic's surname, and _Mrs _Two-Shoes couldn't lie at all.

"What's your purpose here?" the templar continued. His shoulders relaxed slightly – good, he had fallen for the initial deceit...

"I was pursuing a pirate," the former guardswoman lied – _properly _lying, this time, "and the bitch" – Isabela scowled – "led me all the way through the forest. I was looking for shelter for tonight, before I return to Kirkwall..."

"Kirkwall?" a second templar piped up, before the first could reply. He sound younger, which either made him more naïve, or more tenacious... or both. "You mean you haven't heard?"

"Heard what?" Aveline murmured, with convincing surprise in her voice. Okay, maybe she wasn't _such _a bad liar...

The three templars on the pier looked at each other with a mixture of worry and bitterness, and Aveline was watching them with her usual hawk-eyed stare, but Isabela's gaze rested far behind them – out of the templars' sight, on a rocky outcrop at the edge of the bay, a Warden and three mages slipped gracefully into the water, disappearing beneath the azure-blue surface.

"Kirkwall has... fallen," the eldest templar muttered, finally, choosing his words carefully. "The Circle of Magi rose up and destroyed the Chantry."

_Liar,_ Isabela's brain hissed. It was tempered by the rather guilty mental admission that the man who had _actually _destroyed the Chantry was currently travelling with them...

"Maker..." the guardswoman at her side whispered, twisting her face into an amateur mask of shock, adding the rather dumb question, "Is everyone alright?"

"No..." the templar replied, bluntly. "The Knight-Commander is dead, as are the Grand Cleric and the First Enchanter. The Circle was annulled for their treason."

Again, the pirate's brain was tearing into his words. _You didn't Annul them, Hawke killed Orsino for you..._

"Maker..." Aveline repeated, letting her sword and shield drop limply to her side.

Just as Isabela was beginning to admire her rival's acting, the third of the templars stepped up. He had been lounging a little way back from his fellows, and had been silent thus far, but now he spoke, and there was an unpleasant, suspicious tinge to his voice that set the pirate's pulse racing.

"What did you say your name was, miss?" he inquired.

"Hendyr."

"See, there's one problem with that. You don't look much like Donnic Hendyr..."

_Ah, crap._

"I'm his sister," Aveline muttered, with remarkably quick thinking. It didn't seem to convince the templar, however...

"I don't see the resemblance," he growled. Rather suddenly, he drew his sword, and levelled it at Aveline's chest. "Take off your gauntlet."

The guardswoman reached for her right gauntlet, almost petulantly, because everyone on the jetty knew what the templar meant, and sure enough:

"The other one."

Aveline shared a reluctant glance with Isabela, sighed resignedly, and tugged off her left gauntlet. The _bloody _wedding ring glinted in the afternoon sun, and the templar's body language hardened, his shoulders stiffening. Behind the visor, Isabela was _sure_ he was smirking, and his two fellows were letting their hands stray towards their weapons.

"That would make you... _Aveline_ Hendyr, no?" the templar snarled. "Or is it still Aveline Vallen?"

Aveline Vallen and/or Hendyr didn't reply – in a single fluid motion, she brought her weapons up, and the templar was stunned to find his sword catapulted into the sea by a swing of hers. A moment later, she had slammed her shield into his chest, knocking him head-first into the water with a satisfying scream. Aveline just had time to wheel around and toss one of Isabela's daggers back to her before the templars fell upon her, swords drawn.

Now, Isabela would begrudgingly admit Aveline was tough – she was proving that by the moment, as she fended off the two templars. Furthermore, she had to admit the guard captain was smart. That said, there were certain things Aveline simply didn't think of – like how Isabela was meant to catch a dagger with her hands bound behind her back. The blade clattered uselessly to the floor, and one of the templars fighting Aveline broke off to the side, lunging at Isabela. His sword was raised high, ready to sweep down in a deadly arc –

And before it could, his calf crumpled, spraying a stream of blood across the wood at their feet. He dropped onto his knees with a grunt of pain, and Isabela didn't need to look up to know where the crossbow bolt, now embedded in his leg, had come from. At any rate, even if she _had _looked up to their former vantage point on the cliffs, Varric had made himself quite invisible in the undergrowth. The pirate took her chance, screaming as she swung a kick at the templar's head – her boot connected with a sickening _crunch_, and he slid off into the water like his fellow. A moment later, the last templar's sword rang off Aveline's shield, and the guard captain dispatched him with a single blow to the neck.

Wordlessly, and with an air of urgency, Aveline strode back over to Isabela, sliced the length of cord around her wrists – the pirate scowled and stretched her fingers, not really believing it had been necessary in the first place – and handed her back her second dagger. She stooped down to pick up the first too, and had just finished weighting the two blades, one in each hand, when the first shouts began to ring out through the bay.

"Raise anchor!" someone bellowed, and the pirate's senses narrowed the voice down to the galleon's quarter deck. She smiled smugly, at the prospect of what was about to happen...

That smugness faltered as an arrow thudded into the rotten wood of the jetty, at her feet. A second followed, skimming over their heads to land on the beach beyond, and Isabela could clearly see a trio of templars, lined up along the side of the galleon and bracing bows for another volley. Good though she was, she couldn't do much about an arrow to the gut, so she lunged behind Aveline – the guardswoman was kneeling down, covering both of them with her sturdy shield, as arrows began to bounce off it. Even now, the smug grin on Isabela's face was refusing to abate, because, as the galleon's anchors were wheeled back up to the deck, she could see four rather wet forms clinging to the chains, being dragged out of the water by the templars' own efforts.

Even from this distance, she could see the swiftness with which events proceeded. The anchors rose sleekly out of the sea, the chains clanked back into their sockets, and the first of the forms clinging on launched himself over the side of the ship, much to the dismay of the templars – it was Carver, and it took him mere moments to bring down two templars, hurling a third over the guardrail and into the deep sea below. Anders joined him a moment later, and the deck came alive with fire as the mage did his furious work. Indeed, by the time Merrill and Hawke scrambled aboard, the templars on the deck were all dead or dying. Nonetheless, the four of them were still moving with urgency, almost like clockwork, to fulfil the plan Isabela had outlined less than an hour before. Even as Anders scrambled to the wheel, templars were emerging from beneath the deck – Carver kicked the first one back down the stairs, swung the doors shut in front of them, and slid his sword between the handles, barring them.

The galleon was already swinging through the water towards them, and with the archers gone, Aveline lowered her shield, running to the end of the jetty to meet the ship. Isabela was slightly more cautious as she followed – she was still rather aware of the caravel, which had now shifted course, cutting through the waters to intercept the galleon.

There was no time to worry about that, though – the galleon streamed towards the end of the jetty, swinging around to avoid crashing ashore, even as Carver hurled a pair of ropes over the side. The bull-like young man was gripping one in each hand, and amazingly, managed to hold both Isabela and Aveline's weights as they jumped up and began to climb. Aveline had hurled her shield and sword up onto the ship ahead of her, and even then, her ascent was rather clumsy, armoured and heavy-footed as she was. Isabela, by contrast, was light and nimble, and had shimmied up onto the deck before the guardswoman was half way up the galleon's side. With the pirate aboard, Carver grabbed Aveline's rope in both hands, and yanked it upwards, dragging her over the guardrail and aboard.

That, unfortunately, was where Isabela's plan ran out. While explaining it, she had reached the stage of boarding the galleon before uttering the fateful words, _'We can improvise'._ As she peered around, the little caravel was growing closer by the second, and Hawke was pacing frustratedly towards her over the deck. The mage's knuckles were white from the tense grip on her staff...

"Isabela," she called, "what in the Maker's name do we do now? Because Varric's still on the cliffs, that ship isn't slowing down any time soon, and _our hold is full of templars!_"

"I... damn it, one problem at a time!" the pirate murmured, setting her eyes on the fast-approaching caravel. A flaming arrow whizzed past her head as she did, fired by an archer on the caravel's foredeck. They had to take the damn ship down... Finally, she made up her mind, and instructed, "Everyone to the guardrail, get ready to face boarders!"

"That's it?" Hawke cried, dismayed. It was certainly novel to see the almighty Champion panicking like this...

"That's it," Isabela growled, pushing her friend towards the side of the ship. "Just follow my lead. Trust me, Hawke..."

The other woman nodded, and the group as a whole lined themselves up along the guardrail, even Anders, who had abandoned the wheel, locking it on a straight course out to sea. The few moments they had delayed had been enough for the templars to reach them – the caravel swivelled sideways at a spin of the wheel, clattering against the side of the commandeered galleon even as the templars began to ready their grappling hooks.

"Hold..." Isabela persisted, as the first hooks sailed into the air. One of them clattered against the rail beside Carver and bounced away, but the rest held fast, and the templars were beginning to swing up, grabbing the ropes to haul themselves upwards. It couldn't have been an easy task – the galleon was a good deal taller than the caravel, and the gradient made it much harder for the heavily-armoured knights to clamber up. Luckily for Isabela and her companions, it worked vice versa, and when the templars were half way up, she yelled aloud, "Now! Follow me!"

Without looking back, she vaulted over the rail, grabbing the nearest of the ropes with her right hand and sliding along it. It burned slightly, but her seasoned hands were used to rope burn. She could only hope the others were smart enough to use staves or gauntlets to slide along, instead of tearing bare palms apart...

She was soon distracted from that line of thought by the sight of a templar, suspended below the rope ahead of her, looming ever-more quickly into view. Acting on instinct, she raised both boots and kicked him hard in the gut – the templar yowled, his grip faltered, and he dropped feet-first into the sea. Another was just about to grab hold of the rope, at its base on the caravel, but he hesitated, and in that moment of hesitation, Isabela reached him, booting him away as she did.

There were five templars still on the ship as she landed cat-like on the deck – she had just sent one sprawling to the floor, but there were another two advancing, swords in hand, and two archers on the far side, pulling back their bowstrings. She dove aside as a pair of arrows shot through the space she had formerly occupied, whirled on her heel, and had her daggers drawn in the briefest of moments. One of the templars rushed in headlong, and she dropped to the deck, ducking under his sword-swing and tripping him – he plunged over the side with a yell, and was lost.

The others were rushing to challenge her, but help was on its way. The first to catch on to the scheme, Hawke clattered onto the deck at Isabela's side, and in an instant, she had reduced the two archers to lightning-blasted heaps on the floor with a surge of magic. And then there were two...

Aveline, Anders and Merrill were all sliding down the grappling lines, with Carver waiting on the galleon to see them down, but Isabela and Hawke were left side-by-side for now, to take down the two approaching templars. Hawke's magic had taken the archers by surprise, but the two swordsmen creeping forward wouldn't be so lax, which to Isabela's mind made another magical assault useless. Sure enough, the mage wasn't bothering – she was gripping her staff lengthways, readying it like a polearm.

To Isabela's surprise, Hawke was actually rather graceful in melee combat. One of the templars lunged forward, making a decapitating swing with his longsword, but the mage ducked it, trapped his sword in the fork of her staff's blade, then twisted around, turning the staff as she did and snapping his wrist with a sickening _crunch_. Moments later, she had smacked him around the head with the wooden tail of the staff, knocking him into the sea which was now so full of hapless templars...

The second dove forwards, aiming to catch Hawke off-balance, but the pirate lunged towards him almost without thinking about it – she grabbed him half-way to the mage's back, and rolled to the floor, spinning him on top of her before launching a hefty knee to his midriff. With the templar winded, she threw him back _onto _his feet, flipped herself upright, and slashed his unguarded throat with the tip of her dagger. His body hit the deck just as Anders' feet did, swiftly followed by Merrill and Aveline, and then by the rather less graceful Carver, who, after recovering his sword, slid down and crunched to the floor with all the subtlety of a scolded bear. It took Isabela a few moments to realise the idiot had tried gripping the rope like she did, and his hands were red-raw with rope burn. Hawke was already moving across, readying a healing spell, as the pirate's mind flitted back to business.

She sprang nimbly up onto the aft deck, taking the wheel and swinging them away from the galleon, just as Aveline, unbidden and rather intuitively, began to slash through the grappling lines, tearing their own vessel away from the now templar-laden galleon. In a matter of minutes, they had gone from two ships packed with angry templars, to one ship under their control, and another full of admittedly even _angrier_ templars. _Not bad_, her brain conceded, _but we're just getting started._

"Right, time for problem number two!" Isabela shouted, merrily. The merriness probably wasn't appropriate – they had a galleon hot on their heels, and the templars were already scattering arrows in their direction – but _damn it _it felt good to have a ship's wheel at her fingertips once more.

_Problem number two _was the dwarf, stood alone on the cliffs. Varric had emerged from his hiding place without being shot – the templars were more focused on the renegades that had just hijacked their ship – and was staring down at them with what appeared to be a hint of worry, as if he thought he was about to be left behind. With a gentle spin of the wheel, Isabela sent the caravel listing over towards the cliffs – to the apparent panic of some of her shipmates – and yelled up to the cliffs:

"Varric! Jump!"

The reply was almost instant, full of reluctant vigour:

"Damn it, Rivaini!"

With that, Varric launched himself towards the edge of the cliff, his stubby legs pounding across the ground before leaping as ambitiously as they could. He had Bianca in one hand, and as he soared – well, _plummeted _– through the air towards them, he somehow managed to hook the crossbow's lathe into one of the mainsail's guide ropes. He slid down gracefully, spinning through the air...

Then lost his grip, disconnected from the rope, and dropped into the sea with a dull _splash_. Still winding her way away from the galleon, Isabela swung the ship right until the starboard side dipped inches from the water's surface – Carver and Merrill in particular, not having the sturdiest sea legs, were clinging on for dear life as she did – and Anders reached a strong arm into the sea, plucking the sodden dwarf out by the scruff of his duster coat. Varric sprawled on the deck, clutching Bianca and coughing his little lungs out, even as Anders marched up to the quarter deck, a steely glint in his eyes.

"Two down..." Isabela murmured, as he approached. Her voice was growing tense now. Problem number three? The galleon was gaining on them.

"What do we do about _them?_" Anders muttered, voicing her concerns and moving past her to watch the fast-approaching galleon. There were templar archers on the bow, just _waiting _to take a shot.

"They've got big, square sails," the pirate mused, "the caravel might be light, but it can't outrun them with the wind behind us. We've got lateens, though, we can outrun them _against _the wind..."

As she spoke, she doubted he even knew what lateens were. It was odd, crewing a ship with a bunch of 'landlubbers', to borrow a less sophisticated term from her brethren. The lateens, she told herself – no-one else would listen – were the triangular sails fixed against the caravel's two masts, centre and aft. They were smaller than square sails, reducing their speed, but they allowed the nimble caravel to zigzag into the wind where the galleon would merely stop, the winds pushing its sails in the wrong direction.

"I've got a better idea," the mage growled, and Isabela wheeled around just in time to see him clamber up against the aft rail, swinging his staff with a blaze of light – a spiralling fireball issued out of thin air, shot off behind them, and slammed against the galleon's mainsail with a burst of flames. Almost instantly, the sail was consumed with fire, which spread virulently to the rigging and the smaller sails to fore and aft. In a matter of moments, Anders had reduced the galleon to a flame-strewn hulk, drifting slowly to a halt as its sails crumbled to ash.

"Well, it's not subtle..." Isabela murmured, leaning back against the wheel, and guiding the caravel into the wind, as the flames crackled through the sunlit sky. "But it'll do..."


	2. The Waking Sea

**Chapter 2**

**The Waking Sea**

* * *

Sailing, Hawke had decided, was not as glamorous as Isabela always made out... In fact, it was downright horrible at times.

It had been... _some _hours since they departed the Marches, and the sun was dipping perilously towards the horizon, scattering fiery orange and deep purple to the high winds. Isabela was still at the wheel, swinging them left and right over the waves, even as the wind buffeted their faces from dead ahead. Varric was perched on the bow, watching whatever was hurtling towards them, while Hawke, Aveline and Anders helped with the rigging and so on at Isabela's behest – in reality, that meant _Anders _scurried about, addressing the ropes with surprising familiarity, while Hawke and Aveline watched on clueless. Everyone except Isabela had fixed themselves to the guardrail with a length of rope about their waist, just in case the increasingly stormy seas should invite them overboard, but the pirate queen was completely nonplussed about the way the boat rocked and bucked on every crested wave, and stood firm-footed behind the wheel.

Hawke attempted to move up to the aft deck, but was knocked to her knees by a particularly vicious swell. Nonetheless, she picked herself up, and marched towards Isabela. The pirate's expression barely flickered at her approach, but she acknowledged her with a brief call of:

"Problem, Hawke?"

"Where are we going?" the mage inquired, above the crash of a breaking wave.

"East," Isabela replied.

"Why?"

"Because the wind's going west. We can outrun any templar galleon into the wind. Besides, if you want to get away from the templars and the Chantry, west means Orlais, and that's not a good start!"

"What does east mean, then?"

"The open ocean, east of Amaranthine! Beyond that... Rivain? The Chantry isn't too strong there..."

"You just want to go home!" Hawke teased, a grin breaking over her features.

"Damn right," Isabela joked, with a matching grin. Then, her face fell slightly, and she added, "There is a _small _problem, though..."

"What?"

"_That_."

She was pointing slightly off to port – or was it starboard? It was left, anyway –and after a moment's confusion, Hawke realised _exactly _what she was talking about. The coast of the Free Marches was visible in the distance, framed by an orange glow from the falling sun, but just beneath that sun, she could make out a wall of vehement, stormy grey, tinged violet at the top by the sunset glare. A storm was closing in, and Isabela's face, normally light and trouble-free, was actually displaying some worry at the sight of it – a nervous stare, a bit lip...

"Why are we sailing right _into _it?" Was Hawke's first question, and it seemed the most obvious.

"Because it'll drive west along the whole of the Waking Sea – no matter which way we go, it'll reach us eventually, and if we went the _other _way, we'd have to shelter in an Orlesian port."

"And... why didn't you mention this before?"

"Well, I was trying to come up with a solution first. That way I would have looked, y'know, quick-thinking, and smart..."

Hawke scowled at her, and Isabela replied with a guilty smile.

"Doyou _have_ a solution?" the mage persisted.

"Yes, but not a very good one," the pirate sighed. "Like I said, we can't head west to Orlais, too many templars, and at a guess, I'd say the same holds true for Nevarra. We'll never make Rivain or Antiva, the storm's between us and them. That just leaves Ferelden or the Free Marches."

"And most of the Free Marches is searching for us," Hawke nodded – her heart was racing as she realised what the 'solution' was. Were they about to head home?

"Exactly. If Sebastian's as good as his word, we can't go anywhere _near _Starkhaven's port. Long story short, the Free Marches are out. The only place we're going to find any safety is the Ferelden coast – find an inlet, anchor the ship, and ride out the storm below deck."

"Do you know of any such inlets?"

"A few... There's a big delta on the coast near West Hills, but that means going back the way we came..."

"We'd be running _away _from the storm," Hawke noted, positively.

"Yes..." Isabela mused, "but we'd have to go back past Kirkwall, and I'll bet that strait's packed with templar ships now. We'll have to run _into _the storm and hope they don't follow. Assuming you don't want to dock at Highever-"

"Too conspicuous," she nodded, in agreement. "Avoid the cities, if you can..."

"Right. Well, the rest of the Coastlands are too open, we'd just get smashed against the cliffs. Sailing all the way round to Denerim harbour would be almost impossible, and no less conspicuous..." It seemed to Hawke that Isabela wasn't so much talking to her as reviewing the maps long-imprinted on her memory, and talking aloud to herself. "That just leaves the Amaranthine region. There's a narrow passage through the middle of Brandel's Reach..."

"Isn't Brandel's Reach the raider hideout?" Hawke interrupted, nervously.

"Yes, so we'll give _that _a miss," Isabela nodded – as she did, she swung the ship to the right, and Hawke almost sprawled across the deck... "We can avoid Amaranthine port if we stick to the far side of the waterway, and then duck into the bay south of the city. It's the safest place I can think of, and it's mostly unpopulated..."

"Sounds good enough to me," the mage agreed, and turned to leave, but Isabela called out, jokingly:

"Hawke! You owe me at _least _a couple of handsome deckhands for this..."

"Get us there in one piece, and I'll give you the damn ship!" Hawke called back, with a grin, then added, "And Varric!"

* * *

If Sara Hawke disliked sailing, then Carver Hawke _hated _it. He was fine as a passenger on a big ship, but a crappy little thing like this? It was pretty feeble, as boats went, and he wished Isabela wouldn't toss it about so, as if it were a battered ragdoll...

He had been relegated to the hold by the others after losing _most _of his lunch over the port side, and was sat here in utmost boredom, just trying to ride out every sway and buck of the boat's thin hull beneath his backside. The caravel's cramped hold – designed for lightness, not size – reminded him ever-so-slightly of the ship they had departed Lothering from, during the Blight. Cramped beneath the deck, feeling sick, leaving everything behind... at least that had been a _big _ship though, it hadn't creaked and groaned like this every time it was presented with a wave, and it hadn't leapt about like a wasp-stung mabari.

Merrill was looking even worse for wear. The elf, sat opposite him in the hold, had her knees up to her chest, and her slender face was buried in them, looking as green as her garb. Her staff was abandoned at her side – Carver's sword, too, was discarded against the far wall – but it slid about with every movement of the ship, and Carver had an unspeakable urge to grab it and move it away, before the sharp spike on the head found someone's leg.

"Are you alright?" he murmured, finally, with a tender undertone his voice had only recently come to possess. The Wardens, his extended family, had mellowed his personality as much as they had honed his skills...

"I'm... fine," Merrill sighed, unconvincingly, still speaking from between her own knees. "The Dalish, we're... not that _good _with boats... we prefer dry land, to be honest."

"Ah... I think I might be Dalish, then," Carver groaned, as another buck of the ship sent a nauseating jolt through his stomach.

Merrill looked up for a moment, appraisingly, then managed the weakest of smiles and decided:

"Nope. Nowhere near pointy enough..."

"I was... wait, are you talking about my _ears?_"

Merrill shrugged, and buried her head in her knees once more with a dry gulp.

"_Why _did we let Isabela steer the ship?" she moaned. "She can't even walk straight! Her hips just waggle all over the place..."

"I _think _that's intentional."

"Oh."

There was an awkward pause, and Carver stole a glance at her face, even buried as it was in the folds of her garb. Merrill hadn't changed much, really. She didn't even look that much older, not like he did. The only real change was in her eyes – the previous, faraway daze had been replaced by a harder expression, one grounded in reality and horror, and one which he was sad to say he recognised. He didn't want to pry into what had happened, especially not _now _of all times, but _something _had clearly stolen her nerve.

"How have you been?" Merrill murmured, out of the blue, lifting her face up to look at him. "Sorry, it's just I haven't seen you in years, have I? Five, is it, six? Not since you went off into the Deep Roads. I mean, I heard about you from Hawke, a few years back, and she always talked about your letters, but – oh, lethallin, I'm sorry, I'm rambling again aren't I?"

"A little," Carver laughed, weakly. It rang true, though – Merrill hadn't accompanied them on Bartrand's expedition, and she hadn't been with Hawke during the qunari raid, when he and Stroud had been in Kirkwall. It certainly didn't feel like six years since he'd seen her, though... it seemed as natural and friendly as the day he'd departed for the Deep Roads.

"Sorry," she apologised, again. "Talking takes my mind off the sickness..."

"Then keep talking," he muttered. Even as he said it, however, his mind was on other matters. Namely, how long were they going to be _on _this boat? The journey to Kirkwall from Ferelden had taken the best part of two weeks, but that had been from the very southernmost areas of Gwaren. He didn't know _where _they were headed this time, or how fast the caravel was. He abandoned his thought process as Merrill spoke up, suddenly:

"I missed you."

"Huh?" Carver replied, dumbly.

"We all did," she added, rather hastily...

"Really?" he muttered, sceptically.

"Well, I don't think Anders did," Merrill murmured, pensively. Carver scowled, not at the elf but at the mental figure of the mage above deck. Seeing his reaction, however, she added, "Oh, it wasn't anything horrible! It's just, he was a Warden, wasn't he?"

"Yes..."

"So, whenever Hawke got upset, about you being gone, he'd just tell her how good the Wardens were, how well you'd be doing..."

"I... okay, I suppose that's not _so _bad... Wait, did you say _Sara _got upset over me?"

"Sara? Who's Sara- oh, right, Hawke! I should probably stop calling her that, shouldn't I? I mean, she's a Hawke, you're a Hawke... I'm getting off the point, aren't I?"

He nodded.

"Haw- _Sara... _wow, it feels odd calling her that... Anyway, she was _really _upset when we lost you! From what I heard, she gave Varric all the treasure to sell on, told Anders she'd meet him later, and disappeared off onto the Wounded Coast... Just sat there all night, until dawn – Varric was the one who found her, and he dragged her back to Kirkwall before she froze..."

"That's... new," Carver muttered, looking down at his feet. It was certainly weird – Sara had never cared too much what happened to him... He chided himself for thinking that – the Wardens had mellowed him, but it seemed some of his old bitterness still hung on in there.

"It's really not," Merrill assured him. "She cared a lot more than she ever said..."

The young Warden merely smiled at her, and then, eager to get off the awkward family talk, asked:

"What about the others?"

"Well, Fenris was always moaning about not having another real warrior to spar with..." – Carver chuckled weakly at that – "and Isabela missed teasing you... I think Aveline and Varric took it worst, though – err, not counting Sara..."

"Oh? I wouldn't have imagined those two breaking up over anything..."

"Well, Aveline was protective of you and Hawke – Sara! – since Lothering... And Varric? He was... guilty. He persuaded the two of you to join the expedition, so he blamed himself for what happened to you."

"Stupid dwarf," he muttered, wryly. "His brother was to blame, not to mention those tainted creatures – I hear Bartrand got what was coming to him, and I've had a _lot _of chances to pay the darkspawn back..."

"You have? When was that?" Merrill inquired, slow on the uptake yet again.

"These last six years?" Carver hinted, slowly, then added, "When I was a _Grey Warden?_"

"Oh, right..."

The ship jolted again, with particular vigour, changing directions quickly enough to topple the thin elf to the floor. She lay there for a moment, as the usual pink tinge – momentarily reclaimed by her cheeks – gave way to ghostly white and sickly green once more. An immense feeling of pity for her sprang through Carver's being – she was suffering even worse than he was, poor girl...

He shuffled over to sit next to her as she picked herself up off the floor, and the two of them were silent – rather instinctively, he slipped a hefty, armoured arm around her, and felt her slightly cold, slender form huddle into the crook of his shoulder.

"Better?" he murmured.

"Much," she sighed, eyes clamped shut. "The floor isn't spinning quite so much now..."

* * *

"Varric! The storm's getting pretty bad, are you alright?"

"I'm _fine_, Hawke, just tell me Rivaini knows where she's going!"

Through the jagged slants of rain, Varric saw his old friend slump down next to him, with a weary sigh that was drowned out amidst the storm. She mustered up enough effort to grab the rope around her waist and tie it to the bow rail, before sliding down onto the deck once more. Her blonde hair, swept back from her brow and into a rough ponytail, was sodden, broken into rain-soaked strands. Little rivulets were pouring down the jagged metal sections of her armour, and the robes between them were sticking doggedly to her pale human skin. Tiredly, the Champion pulled her hood up over her head, trying to keep off the worst of the rain, but she still looked utterly miserable.

Besides the two of them, tucked into the ship's bow, only two of the others were on deck – Isabela was at the wheel, dogged as ever, and Anders was tugging at the mainsail's guide ropes. Aveline had disappeared beneath the deck, to check on Carver and Merrill. A few hours had passed since sunset, and the sky was no longer tinged with fire – it was a deep indigo, with only a crescent moon providing illumination. Even that was sporadic at best, as it flitted through the clouds...

Slowly, Varric turned his marksman's eyes to the coast, running level with the caravel's side. They were hugging the rocky cliffs of the Ferelden Coastlands, and the templar ship was making extraordinary progress with Isabela at the helm – they were already east of Highever, and Amaranthine couldn't be more than a couple of hours away.

"She knows," Hawke muttered, after a long pause, using an infinitesimal drop in the wind to make her words audible. "We're heading just past Amaranthine, Isabela says there's a bay to shelter in..."

"She'd better be right..." the dwarf rumbled. "But where do we go from there?"

"I think she's got it into her head that we head north, to Rivain..."

"Ancestors, she's _got _to be kidding!"

"Why?"

"Rivain? Llomerryn, home of the Raiders? You know, those lovable scoundrels we've been _massacring _on and off for the last seven years? And, hell, I shouldn't even have to point out the _qunari _presence!"

The dwarf was gratified to see Hawke biting her lip in doubt, even as that lip, and the rest of her face, and the rest of _his_, were battered by the rain. Bianca, mercifully waterproofed, was holding out against the rain, but Varric wasn't doing quite so well as his weapon. His hair, usually settled into a look of _pristine_ messiness – the dashing rogue look – was soaked and clumpy, and his leather duster was coursed by little sluices of rainwater, sliding down him to pool on the deck below.

"Where else could we go, then?" Hawke piped up, but Varric had a feeling she already had a destination in mind – the same one he did.

"You know what I'm about to say, don't you?"

"Ferelden?"

"More... specific. There are templars in Ferelden too, the only way you're going to avoid them is by finding people to _protect_ you..."

"So...?" she persisted. "Varric, where did you have in mind?"

The dwarf played a roguish smile across his features, and muttered:

"Vigil's Keep."


	3. The Return To Ferelden

**Chapter 3**

**The Return To Ferelden**

* * *

"No! No way!" Anders cried.

"Why not?" Carver retorted, "I'm a Grey Warden, and so are you!"

"I'm an _ex_-Grey Warden, and I happen to have deserted from right here in Amaranthine – they'd probably kill me on sight!" the mage protested.

"I could live with that..." the younger man snarled.

"Stop it, both of you!" Hawke snapped, unable to handle it any more. The worst thing was, part of her wanted to side with Carver, where previously she would have agreed with anything Anders said. The change was... troubling.

They had made it past Amaranthine, and were now sheltered in the smallest inlet of the bay Isabela had described. The anchor was holding them neatly in place, although the caravel did occasionally – and worryingly – bump against the cliff face. Outside, the sky was black, but forks of silver rain were still just visible in the air – the deck was soaked, and no-one had wanted to be up there in that storm.

As it was, they were all packed into the cramped hold. With the anchor down and the rudder locked, they didn't need anyone manning the ship, so they had all been free to shelter below deck, and conversation had quickly turned to their destination. When Sara had proposed Vigil's Keep, Carver had immediately agreed, while Anders had vehemently _dis_agreed. Hawke was now stood between the two of them, willing them not to get into a fight, as Aveline and Isabela watched on from the sidelines. In the far corner, Merrill was attending to Varric, using a simple heating spell to dry the sodden, shivering dwarf off – apparently, dwarves didn't mix too well with water...

"I don't see what other option we have," Hawke persisted. Surprisingly, Isabela didn't protest – she had given up on the notion of going to Rivain the very moment it had been pointed out that there were qunari there...

"There are always other options!" Anders argued. "We could stay at sea! We could find the mage underground!"

"We don't even know where the mage underground _is_-"

"And I wouldn't trust them if we did," Carver interrupted. "You saw those mages when we were fleeing Kirkwall – at least half of them were maleficarum!"

"I... quite," Hawke stammered, uncertainly. Her brother was crossing dangerously close to insulting _her_ too, as a mage. "As for staying at sea, we'll need _food _at some point, and that means going ashore!"

"_Why_ does it have to be the Grey Wardens, though?" the _ex-_Warden moaned.

"Because they're the only group the Chantry can't touch," she replied, with a tone of stony determination. For what seemed the first time in years, _anger _was bubbling up at Anders. He'd gotten them into this mess, she wasn't going to let his whining stop her getting them _out _of it...

"I... I suppose so," Anders admitted, shakily. "But I'm still not thrilled about the idea."

"You don't have to be," her brother muttered. "We're doing it with or without you." Then, he took on a more conciliatory tone and added, "Besides, they won't _kill _you, they need every Warden they can get..."

"Maybe you're right," the mage sighed, turning away.

"But," Carver smirked, at his back, "five silvers says the Warden-Commander beats the _crap _out of you."

* * *

At that very moment, the Warden-Commander was undergoing the thoroughly unexciting task of sifting through letters... The murder of an Orlesian noble was doing the rounds, at present – two minor banns had both sent studious letters informing him of it, and embellishing their own roles in obtaining the news. Amazingly, they thought _they _were important enough to be privy to this great secret, but the Arl of Amaranthine, personal friend of the king, would have been kept in the dark. He swore the Bannorn was getting more and more like the Orlesians they detested every day, one-upping each other for a game with no prize...

Anyway, the news of an Orlesian being assassinated by another Orlesian was rather standard, and was utterly drowned out by the word drifting across from the Free Marches. It had taken less than a day for word to spread of Kirkwall's fall – the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry had been seen all the way across the Waking Sea, in Amaranthine and Highever, and the templars had wasted no time in dispatching messenger birds and couriers to the far corners of Thedas, even before the battle had finished. Within a few hours of the uprising's beginning, templars from Ferelden, Orlais and Nevarra had been on the march, and the Warden-Commander strongly suspected they had been _waiting _to go to Kirkwall, because their response was remarkably quick.

The departure of the templars was fine by him, however. In his younger days, he had been a staunch ally of the Order – one of his greatest regrets now was that he had participated in the annulment of the Lake Calenhad Circle. Admittedly, it had earned him invaluable templar support in the attack on Denerim – Knight-Commander Greagoir and his men had stormed the rooftop of Fort Drakon, along with the Wardens and the men of Redcliffe, to attack the Archdemon. But the moderate Greagoir had died years prior, taken by sickness as he rebuilt the Circle, and his replacement was an odious figure who took the view of the most pig-headed templars – that the Wardens were just a refuge for apostates and maleficarum, and should be brought under the Chantry's rules... Years of their interference had turned the Warden-Commander from their old ally, to their frequent sparring partner. His loyalty to them had been exceeded and broken long ago by his loyalty to the Wardens – _his _Wardens, more specifically. The experience of leading them at the Vigil, of taking not one but _two _apostates into his care, had done a great deal to mellow his views on magic, and the ranks of the Vigil's Wardens had, in the years since, come to accommodate a great number of mages, with only a minority coming from the Circles.

The most remarkable thing about his mental state at present though, was not his musings on the templars but the sense of _boredom _he felt. The Warden-Commander hadn't left the Vigil in weeks, not unless you counted the brief hour-rides to Amaranthine, and he certainly didn't. It was unerring, to be a fighting man stuck playing politics. True, as a nobleman he had always been lined up for politics – as the eldest son, Fergus got the fun of leading armies, while as the second, Tyran himself was relegated to statesmanship – but he had never really enjoyed the prospect. Put simply, he felt like an old dog now. He had forged his name in the darkest of wars, the Blight, and now he was stuck as a nobleman once more, without a battle to test his blade in – it made him feel rather useless, washed up, even. He greeted bandit raids with morbid relish because, terrible though they were, they gave him a chance to fight, to let the boiling blood rise in his veins once more...

His self-pity was interrupted by a knock at the door, as Varel let himself in without waiting for permission – after six years of working together, the Warden-Commander and his seneschal didn't stand on pretence.

"What news, Varel?" he muttered, over his shoulder, as the other man approached.

"Reports from one of the scouts," the seneschal replied, and Tyran shot upright. A scout report being delivered in the middle of night usually meant something _interesting_...

"Well, go on then!" he urged. "What have they spotted?"

"A ship," Varel began, "in the southern bays, just off the road to Denerim. They're anchored down in an inlet..."

"Probably sheltering from the storm."

"Indeed, but the crew were gone – either they jumped ship, or they were hiding below deck."

"Why did you bring this to me?" the Warden-Commander frowned, finally. A ship hiding from the storm was nothing remarkable...

"The ship was flying templar colours. More specifically, _Kirkwall _templar colours."

There was a slight, contemplative pause, as Tyran digested the seneschal's concern, and voiced it himself:

"Why would a templar ship hide in the bay, instead of putting in at Amaranthine?"

"_That_, my lord, is the question..."

The Warden-Commander stepped back, massaging his brow with his right hand, and looking out towards the window. It was black – the storm that was battering the coast was raking across Vigil's Keep, too, pelting the ramparts and drowning the courtyard in an inch of glistening, silver-moonlit water. Through the darkness, he could just about see the guardsmen on the walls, vainly trying to keep their torches lit despite the downpour. On any other night, he would have dismissed venturing out in this weather without a moment's hesitation, but right now, his boredom and curiosity were teaming up to overpower the rest of his mind.

"Fetch Nathaniel..." he instructed, finally, "Tell him to gather ten of the Wardens, quick riders, and have them horsed and ready at the gates by the turn of the hour."

"You're riding out tonight?" Varel queried, with surprise in his voice and on his face. "There _is _a storm out there, commander..."

"I _had_ noticed," Tyran scowled. "We can be at the bays by dawn – the storm will be passing by then, and I'll wager the crew will move out at first light. We'll be there to meet them, whoever they are..."

* * *

Sure enough, within an hour the Wardens were on the move, and Nathaniel Howe wasn't exactly happy about it...

They were cantering along the Pilgrim's Path in a tight column, two-abreast. Tyran and Nathaniel formed the front row, with Sigrun close behind, and almost a dozen other Wardens following. He chided himself for bundling them all under 'Wardens' – they had names, and identities, after all, but in his mind, he still held his original companions closest, those who had joined along with him, and fought along with him in the darkest days of the Vigil. Tyran, Oghren and Sigrun were the only ones who remained of that original company – Anders was long gone, having abandoned them, Justice had disappeared, died, perhaps, and poor Velanna had given her life defending the Vigil all those years ago.

He pushed himself away from that painful thought, and as a consequence became rather aware of the rain slashing at his face, the sodden braid of hair falling over his eye – he flicked it away with annoyance – and the lightning kissing the horizon. The horses were persisting doggedly, and most of the Wardens, like Tyran, had heavy armour to keep the rain away, but it was still unpleasant, and cold, and the wind was howling all around them, confusing his usually alert senses.

"Why are we doing this?" he moaned aloud.

"Doing what?" Tyran muttered.

"What do you think? Riding out in the middle of the night, in the middle of a _storm!_"

"We have to check this ship out," the commander sighed, "it would have gone completely unnoticed if our scouts weren't wandering the area, which means the crew didn't want to be found... Templars wouldn't be hiding out there, which leaves raiders or mages as our prime candidates..."

"But that isn't why we're _really _out here," Nathaniel argued, with cutting scepticism. "We're here because you're bored."

Tyran turned to glare at him, but he knew he was right – he'd always been able to annoy the commander by voicing his silent thoughts. Off the field, it irritated him, but in battle, or in tense negotiations, it was invaluable, enabling Nathaniel to follow his commander's lead without hesitation.

"That's great," Sigrun piped up sarcastically, from behind them. "Next time you're bored, don't bring _me _out in the rain!"

The commander sighed, and laughed weakly at his two friends' protestations.

"Too late to turn back now," he observed. "Wardens, pick up the pace!"

With a crack of reins, the Warden-Commander sped his horse into a gallop. Nathaniel quickly followed suit, as did Sigrun, who clumsily spurred her mount forwards – the poor girl wasn't exactly a _slick _rider... Behind them, every Warden in the column sped up, and the clatter of a dozen sets of hooves rang out across the Pilgrim's Path as the Wardens thundered south.

* * *

As dawn broke, Sara Hawke was clambering up out of the caravel's hold, tired, hungry, and distinctly annoyed to find the air still sluiced with rain, the tail end of the previous night's storm – more worryingly, a second of storm clouds was swirling around over the Amaranthine Ocean. Isabela was on deck ahead of her, and the others were gathering their meagre gear, following her up one by one.

"What's the verdict?" she called, as the pirate queen scrambled up onto the aft deck.

"Son of a _scurvy _whore!" was the rather obscene response. Isabela's eyes were clamped to the main sail, and as she looked up, Hawke's jaw dropped. The great, triangular sail had been scarred along the middle, torn from top to tail, presumably by a rocky outcrop as the ship swung in the night.

"So... sailing away _isn't _an option?" Anders murmured, as he joined them on the deck. "Shame..."

"We'll have to head for the shore," Isabela sighed.

"More swimming?" Varric scowled, appearing at the top of the hold stairs with the others close behind.

"Afraid so..." the pirate smiled, and before anyone could say anything more, she had dashed to the guardrail and hurled herself over, making a neat, arrow-sharp dive into the sea below.

The others followed with varying degrees of reluctance – Hawke, Anders and Merrill dove in right away, the armour-weighted, rather concerned Carver and Aveline joined them once they were assured the water wasn't too deep, and the hydrophobic Varric had to be yanked in with a tug of magic from Sara's hand. The dwarf dropped like a stone, flailing his little legs, and was dragged the rest of the way by Carver.

'The rest of the way' took them onward for about ten minutes, around the mouth of the bay and off to the right, where a wave-cut dip in the cliff line sloped down into a coarse shale beach, by way of a single rocky path. Isabela, as ever with matters of the sea, reached it first, and was already staggering up the beach by the time Hawke got to her feet – as she did, she was using a healing spell to clear up the jagged cuts on her palms from scrabbling onto the shale.

They took a moment to stop and catch their breath, and wait for the others – Merrill and Anders arrived close on Hawke's heels, as did Aveline, but they had to wait a couple of minutes for Carver to reach them, struggling with the weight of his armour and the dwarf he was dragging. Aveline helped pull the two of them to their feet, and the group came together once more on the beach, panting slightly as rain continued to pelt them. Despite the rain, the weather felt nowhere near as oppressive as it had before – the winds were gentler, the rain was less vicious, and the sun was shining down on them like an old friend.

"Where now?" Hawke murmured, looking to Isabela for direction despite the fact that they were back on dry land.

"Well, we should probably head – ah."

She trailed off mid-sentence, and as one, they turned to follow her gaze. 'Ah' seemed to be pretty appropriate, if a little mild, because there were a dozen figures emerging from the tree line...

The 'figures' were descending from horseback, and they glinted in the distance – polished armour, sharpened blades, all reflected the glancing sunlight that was filtering through the veil of rain. Beside her, Anders tensed up as the men began to march towards them, and she shot out an instinctive hand, clamping around his upper arm – she could feel barely-contained magic coursing in his veins, and as she glanced at him, his face was a mask of panic.

"It's alright," she soothed, fervently _praying _that Vengeance wasn't about to make an appearance. "They're not templars, look at the armour..."

"I _know _they're not templars," Anders hissed, under his breath, and realisation hit her, before he continued, "I know damn well who they are, and that's the problem!"

It was Carver who moved first – as the shining men, the _Wardens_, passed down the little rocky path to the beach, her brother was moving to meet them, blade in hand, marching determinedly. For a moment, she thought he was about to do something _incredibly _stupid, like take a swing at them, but as he reached the two men at the front – one bulky, one lean, one swordsman, one archer – he raised his greatsword high, span it in his hand, and drove into the earth, before dropping to his knee in a low, bowing salute.

"On your feet, Warden," the swordsman called, and as his voice drifted across, Isabela started with what seemed to be recognition – she trotted up the path towards the Wardens without a second thought, and Hawke followed her nervously, dragging Anders with her.

As she approached, Hawke thought the Wardens made a rather impressive sight, just as the legends always said. Their armour glittered in the dawn sun, and their blades shone even more vehemently. She could see men, dwarves, elves, and every one of them looked lethal, grounded in the world of fire and war, yet strangely ethereal...

The two men at the front had detached themselves from the rest of the group, and were waiting for Hawke and her companions, standing where Carver had met them. Only as she approached did she get a proper look at them, and her jaw dropped as she recognised the one on the right, the lean archer. Nathaniel Howe – the man they'd saved from the Deep Roads just months before...

It was the other man, however, who drew her attention most. He was almost the opposite of Nathaniel – his face was smooth and slightly tanned where Howe's was angular and pale, and where Nathaniel wore the lightest of leather armour, this other man was bedecked in hefty, silver-coloured plate. He had a sword in one hand, a honed, deadly-looking thing, and in the other, a great round shield, emblazoned with a white crest on the steel face. Many of the Wardens carried similar shields, but where theirs bore the Warden crest – two familiar griffons, claw to claw – his displayed two wing-like branches, ivory-coloured and set with a blue outline. A noble crest? Whoever he was, she dropped into a kneeling position to greet him, like Carver had, and bowed her head.

"Stand, friend," he rumbled, and Hawke got rather nervously to her feet, looking up at his face – a curving, black tattoo framed his left eye, and his hair was short and dark, much like Carver's. All in all, he was rather a handsome man, but there was a seasoned, formidable air about him that spoke of years of warring...

They stared at each for a moment, before Isabela stepped in with a curtsy – the man's pale grey eyes went wide in recognition at the sight of her, as she murmured:

"Sara Hawke? May I introduce you to Tyran Cousland – Second Teyrn of Highever, Arl of Amaranthine, and Commander of the Grey in Ferelden..."


	4. The Pilgrim's Path

**Chapter 4**

**The Pilgrim's Path**

* * *

"Warden-Commander, I give you Sara Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall," Isabela continued.

"Well met, Champion," he muttered, taking his measure of Hawke. She was a lean, fair-looking woman, with blonde hair that was ragged from the rain still falling around them, slightly pink-tinged cheeks, and piercing, azure-blue eyes.

With a brief nod to her, he began to examine her companions. Isabela needed no introduction – he still remembered the pirate captain from their encounter in Denerim, all those years ago – but the others were a curious bunch. At Hawke's side was the saluting warrior – his salute was explained by the little tainted pin-pricks in Tyran's blood, which marked the man as a fellow Warden, although his face was unknown. On closer inspection, there were a few subtle similarities between the Warden and Hawke – were they related? Behind him was a dwarf who was beardless, yet clearly male, a formidable, fiery-haired woman in the armour of a soldier – Kirkwall had no army, so she had to be a guard – and a willowy elf with Dalish tattoos. And then, right at the back, desperately trying not to meet his eyes...

"_Anders_," the Warden-Commander growled.

"Err... Tyran," the mage almost _squeaked_. "Long time no see, huh?"

The Warden-Commander paused for a moment, eyes sweeping over his former friend's face. Anders looked... well, pretty damn awful. They _all_ looked the worse for wear, that was true, but his companions had a defiant bonhomie about them, and that same determined spark had all but abandoned the mage. His hair was greasy, unwashed for some time, dirty blond stubble was spreading over his jaw, and his eyes looked... harrowed, a mixture of defeat and shame.

"Nigh on seven years," Tyran murmured, finally, "since you ran off in the night."

His voice bore no trace of hurt or angst – it was icily cold, even by his standards, and its sole purpose was to inform Anders' companions of just what he had done, if they didn't know already.

"Have you told them?" he hissed, drawing closer.

"I told them I left," Anders muttered, flatly.

"And have you told them about the... _passenger?_" Tyran added, tensely.

"You mean the demon?" the young Warden called, from somewhere to the commander's left.

"Spirit," he corrected, as if by reflex. On seeing the incredulous and rather accusatory expression spreading over the young man's face, he persisted, "Anders here might be a pile of walking dragon dung, but Justice was a loyal ally, and a friend. I won't let him be tarred with the name of _demon_."

For a moment, Tyran thought he saw a flicker of angry blue in Anders' eyes, the briefest spark of a deeper soul's recognition. Was that Justice?

"I'm right here, you know," Anders scowled, in a decidedly mortal voice.

"I know you are," the Warden-Commander snapped back. Then, he turned his back rather deliberately on Anders, and called to the others, "I assume you all need some shelter?"

"Well, I need rum and a bath," Isabela smirked, "but I'd settle for shelter."

Tyran tried to drop his features into a relaxed smile, but there was something still nagging at his brain... He suppressed it for a moment, letting his business-like tone take over for a moment:

"Nathaniel, tell the men to make ready and double up some horses. And tell Sigrun she can take a break from riding, if she likes, I'm sure someone will take the reins for her."

"Very good, commander," Nathaniel nodded. He turned, but hesitated for a moment, and continued, "Are we headed for the Vigil, or... Amaranthine?"

It took Tyran a moment to decipher the question, but finally, he managed it – 'Amaranthine' meant the Chantry, and the templars... He wasn't stupid. He knew Anders was a mage, albeit one protected by the Rite of Conscription, but Sara Hawke had a staff on her back, as did the Dalish elf. That made _three _apostates, and only one of them was covered by his authority. By rights, they should be handing them in to the Chantry, not to mention the piratical Isabela...

"The Vigil," he decided, firmly – Nathaniel shot him an approving nod for his mercy, nodded, and departed.

"Shall we join your men, then?" Sara Hawke chimed in, her fair voice slightly hoarse and tired.

"In a moment..." Tyran growled, turning around.

Before anyone could react, let alone stop him, he shot out an armoured fist and smashed it into Anders' face, knocking the mage to the ground with a startled yelp. The blow had been rather harder than he'd intended, and Anders slumped unconscious on the rocky floor.

"Nathaniel!" he bellowed, up the road. "Change of plans, haul Anders on your saddle!"

The archer turned, his mask of confusion quickly dissolving into a half-suppressed smirk, and he trotted back down to them to grab the mage. Tyran advanced up towards the Wardens in his stead, and was thoroughly ignorant of the stunned scene behind him – the dwarf was handing the younger Warden five silvers, and grumbling about a wager...

* * *

A few hours later, the Wardens and their charges were cantering along the Pilgrim's Path, making good pace as the dawn sun shifted to a higher, more central vigil in the pallid sky.

Sara Hawke was perched on the back of a sleek roan courser, behind a lean elven Warden with a dagger on each hip and a sword on his back, and she took the time – dangling in midair, or so it felt – to take a look around at her friends. She felt a slight guilty pang at the sight of Anders, slung over the back of Nathaniel's horse and still unconscious, a purple lump rising over his brow where the Warden-Commander had struck him. The others, however, looked far happier. Carver was riding the horse of a dwarven Warden, a perky little woman who looked rather pleased not to be in the saddle any more – that distaste for riding seemed to be shared by all dwarves, because Varric looked just as uneasy on horseback as he did at sea, perched behind an armoured warrior... Merrill and Aveline, like Sara, were sat behind Wardens as they pushed along the road, and Isabela was side-saddle behind the Warden-Commander himself, just a few feet from Hawke and her riding companion. Cousland was riding with distracted ease, and was chattering away with the pirate like they were old friends – she heard a bevy of familiar names mentioned: Zevran, Alistair, Leliana...

After a while, however, the Warden-Commander swivelled around to face _her_, and caught her attention with a loud call over the clattering hooves:

"Lady Hawke!"

Maker, that felt weird... she hadn't been called 'Lady Hawke' since leaving Ferelden. Ever since, it had been 'Serah' or 'Messere', the clipped addresses of the Free Marches.

"Isabela tells me you hail from Lothering?" the commander continued, with a tone of curiosity.

"Lothering was the last, and the longest, but we lived many places," she replied. "My father was a..."

_Shit_. How the hell had she stumbled into such an easy trap? She had yet to find out whether it was safe to talk of magic and apostates to the Warden-Commander. His vehement spitting of the word 'demon' earlier didn't bode well in that regard...

"... an apothecary," she murmured, finally, but the moment's hesitation had been too long, and soon after she realised it was a futile effort anyway, for two reasons. One, the Grey Wardens were notorious for tolerating apostates, Anders being the operative example. Two, they _knew _who her father was – her efforts to suppress that horrific business in Vimmark had made her forget that other people knew. The Wardens knew damn well that Malcolm Hawke was an apostate, so surely the Warden-Commander of Ferelden would know? To make matters worse, he now knew that she had lied, that she was a _liar_... That wouldn't exactly help them obtain sanctuary...

"I see," he nodded, and the accepting glint in his eye told her she had been panicking too much. "I passed through Lothering myself, on the way from Ostagar."

"You fought at Ostagar?" Hawke murmured, then caught herself: "Of course you did, you're a Warden... You're the bloody Hero of Ferelden..."

"Maker, I hate that name," Cousland laughed, darkly. "But the bards do love to be dramatic... You can call me Tyran, and leave it at that, my lady."

"I'll try, so long as you start calling me by my name, not _my lady_," she smiled.

"A fair deal, my la- Sara..."

"Ah, that'll do. At least you're trying."

With a subtle pause, Hawke caught herself, and began to laugh inwardly. A moment before, she had been debating whether or not to divulge her secrets to him, whether he would betray them to the clutches of chance or not, and now she was chatting irreverently with him, the _Commander of the Grey_. There was just something about him, a roguish gleam in the otherwise serious eyes, and quite suddenly, she could understand the reverential tones in which those shared acquaintances had spoken of him – King Alistair, Leliana, and Zevran. He was a man who was quite easily awed.

Before either could continue their conversation, the group as a whole became aware of another set of hooves sounding out through the cool, midday air. The Warden-Commander raised a clenched fist, and as one the Wardens halted in their saddles, leaving only a single horse's clatter – a dappled grey steed was galloping along the road towards them, with a stocky dwarf in the saddle. The dwarf was a Warden, an outrider sent from the convoy by Cousland some hours earlier, to scout the road ahead. As he swung his mount around, coming to a halt in front of the Warden-Commander, his stony face was etched with the distasteful expression of one who had just swallowed a bee.

"What news, Deric?" Tyran murmured, his face turning grave to match the dwarf's.

"Smoke off the Pilgrim's Path," the dwarf replied, with a low growl, "on the turn east, up Aralt Ridge. From the size, prob'ly a caravan. "

"Aralt Ridge?" the Warden-Commander mused. "I'll wager they were headed east to avoid the Wending Wood."

The 'Wending Wood' was the tangle of gaunt, forbidding trees they had passed through about an hour prior. It spoke of a bloody past and ghoulish goings-on, and even the Wardens hadn't deigned to stay there long, speeding up to a gallop to pass through it.

"Aye," Deric agreed. "Always something about that wood. You surface folk are bloody superstitious..."

"Oh, and you dwarves aren't?" Tyran retorted. "After we recruited you, you spent three weeks thinking the _sky _was going to fall on your head..."

"Fair point, I s'pose," the dwarf grinned. "What d'you say we do about it, sir?"

"They were close to the coast..." Tyran considered. "It could be the Felicisima Armada venturing further south than usual."

Sara knew from her years in Kirkwall that the Felicisima Armada, or 'Raiders of the Waking Sea', scourged all of the Waking Sea's coastlands – Kirkwall, Amaranthine, Highever, all the way from the Amaranthine Ocean in the east to Orlais in the west...

"_Or_," he continued, "it could just be mountain bandits. Or the Dalish..."

The elf behind whom Sara was riding seemed to bristle at that suggestion, and she surmised he must be Dalish – a little way away, Merrill was glaring in the same fashion.

"I'm sorry," Tyran murmured, directing his apology at the Dalish Warden, "but it _happens_ around here! You've heard me talk about Velanna, who helped defend the Vigil? We met _her _when she started raiding caravans in the Wending Wood..."

"Either way," Nathaniel urged, diplomatically, "we should find out, right?"

"Right," the Warden-Commander agreed, firmly. "Nathaniel, you're with me. Sigrun, take his saddle and Anders – ride the others back to the Vigil, quick as you like. Warden Carver" – he had taken the younger Hawke's name during the ride – "if you'd care to accompany us? Sara, you too?"

"Why?" was the question which tore out of her slightly bewildered lips.

"It's always good precaution to have a healer around-"

"And he forgot to bring one," Nathaniel smirked, drawing his commander's frown.

"Well, yes... If you'd care to join your brother, and follow us...?"

They went to work in a quick and slightly dazed fashion – Isabela hopped down from behind the commander, her place taken by bow-bearing Nathaniel, while Sara slipped off the elf's courser, stumbled slightly, and jumped up behind Carver, helped onto the horse's rear by the dwarven girl, Sigrun, was it? With those two readied, Sigrun took Nathaniel's horse, checking the unconscious Anders for good measure, while Isabela slipped into Sara's place behind the Dalish elf.

Sigrun gave a shrill but surprisingly loud cry, spurred her horse onwards, and the Wardens followed. They galloped off into the distance, leaving just two horses behind. Without another word, Cousland guided his off into the wilderness at the road's edge, and Carver moved to follow him. Sara, for her part, was bewildered. A few hours prior they had been clambering out of the sea, now she was going to investigate a _bandit _raid? It was like Kirkwall all over again...

* * *

It took an hour's hard ride over storm-battered gorse and heather before they reached Aralt Ridge. The basalt hills stuck messily out of the earth as if scattered by a forgetful Maker, and the plume of smoke the dwarf Deric had described was rising up along their crests from a low dip in the coast road. As they neared, the Warden-Commander let his own horse drop back, slowing slightly until he and Nathaniel were level with the two Hawkes. He was all too aware of the little cutter bobbing in the sea a little distance away, with Felicisima flags rippling in the breeze...

"Once we get closer, we'll dismount," he called, urgently. "Carver and I will move up along the road. Nathaniel, Sara, take the horses and skirt around onto the ridge above..."

They kept edging forward until the Warden-Commander judged it was no longer safe, and slid off their steeds in rough unison. Sara's legs gave slightly as she stumbled to the floor, and Tyran shot her a sympathetic smile.

In a moment, Nathaniel had gathered the two horses by their lead ropes, and was leading them off to the left, towards the low, forested ridge that overlooked the coast road. As Sara trotted off to follow him, Tyran and Carver were both marching down the road towards the smoke – over the lip of the hill, he could just make out a battered canvas cover, with a few bellicose cries and jeers drifting up into the open air.

"Blades ready," he muttered, to the young Warden at his heel. He slid his own longsword out with a sleek _swish_, but Carver's greatsword, impressive though it was, came free with a loud, grating noise of metal on metal. The Warden-Commander swore aloud, as the voices drifting up from the dip in the road became more tense and furtive – they _had _to have heard that...

Sure enough, they were accosted by a rough, rather stupid cry of:

"Who's that?"

"_Maker_ they're dumb," Carver murmured, under his breath.

Tyran had to agree. As tactics went, yelling to your attackers and giving away your presence – not to mention your guilt – was a pretty poor one...

"Merchants!" he lied aloud. "We're just seeking safe passage..."

"Ah!" the gruff voice replied, growing in confidence. "Then we may 'ave a problem, matey..."

With a derisive chuckle, the unseen raider sprinted up, appearing over the crest of the road... and stopped dead, his face aghast.

"Surprise," Tyran snarled, lunging forward. His blade was neatly planted through the raider's heart before the man could do so much as draw a weapon.

That rather set things in motion. Shaking the man off his blade and sprinting forward, the Warden-Commander took stock of the situation. He had Carver at his heel, but he was rather cautious of the young man's greatsword. If he wasn't careful, he could just as easily cleave through friend as foe... Rather more reliable was Nathaniel, who he could see crossing onto the ridge – Sara Hawke had the horses in hand now, while his fellow Warden notched an arrow and took aim...

He had plenty of targets to choose from – as the road dipped down towards the coast, it bore the all-too familiar sight of a caravan, forced off the road and onto its side, wheels snapped and framework broken, the canvas cover tattered and torn away. Three swordsmen lay dead around it, joined by a fourth man, an unarmed fellow who he presumed had been the driver. Sickeningly, two horses were also sprawled lifeless on the ground, still in their harnesses – mountain bandits would have stolen them, but the Felicisima Armada had no need of mounts on their ships, so had simply cut them down. The raiders themselves numbered five, with the sixth dead at the top of the rise. Four were drawing swords, axes and cudgels, while one drew back the string of a rough-hewn shortbow.

Before the archer could so much as take aim, Nathaniel struck – a single, silver-headed arrow slid effortlessly down from the ridge, and punctured the man's throat. As he dropped down with a gurgle of blood, Tyran and Carver fell upon the rest, swords flashing in the light.

The Warden-Commander quickly found himself facing two raiders, with the caravan's wreckage at his back. One of his assailants was swinging a bearded axe, the other bore a small, round buckler and a hefty cudgel. Frankly, it was child's play, two petty bandits against a Grey Warden... Tyran darted forward, probing with the tip of his sword and causing the two men to leap back in nervous response. They shared a glance, nodded, and then lunged forward as one, swinging both weapons high overhead...

In a single fluid motion he stepped between them – his raised shield knocked away the cudgel to his left, while the axeman on the right found himself gutted by the commander's blade before he could even strike. Swinging around as the axeman toppled to the floor, he found the cudgel-wielder's back left invitingly open – it was the work of seconds to flip his sword around in his grip, and plunge it through the man's neck from behind.

To his side, Warden Carver had just knocked one of the raiders to the ground with a strike of his greatsword's hilt – he whirled around, span the great blade overhead, then drove it down through the man's gut, burying it in the earth. With the sword stuck in the ground, the last remaining raider thought he saw an opportunity, and darted forward, whirling his own blade. Quite to his surprise, the young Warden simply aimed a quick jab at his jaw, stunning him, before cracking him with a heftier right hook that sent him stumbling straight onto Tyran's sword.

With a snort of disgust, the Warden-Commander slid the man off his blade, and slipped it back into its scabbard. Carver was tugging his own weapon out of the earth, as Nathaniel and Sara descended the ridge to join them, with the horses in tow...

"That... didn't take long," Sara murmured with a surprised expression, as she reached them. Her staff was still on her back, utterly unused in the fight.

"We fight darkspawn for a living," her brother muttered, proudly. "Half a dozen raiders is nothing..."

"I hate to burst your bubble, Warden," Tyran smiled, sadly, "but you haven't fought the darkspawn. Not _really_, not a horde... and if I were you, I'd pray to the Maker you never have to..."

There was a slightly awkward silence at that. Carver looked abashed, Nathaniel was rolling his eyes, and Sara had an imperceptible expression on her face, as if studying his own. Finally, it was Nathaniel who broke the silence:

"We should get moving," he sighed. "I don't want to be caught in the open if more raiders come ashore..."

"Right," Tyran nodded. "Set the caravan ablaze – better they be claimed by fire than the worms. Then, we make haste for the Vigil..."

* * *

The journey back to the Vigil was a surprisingly long one, due to their tired state and the worsening weather – by the time they were anywhere near, the clouds were starting to roll back in with a second wave of the storm, and the sun, already dipping towards the horizon, was darkened by the grey shroud.

As it loomed out of the dark, Sara couldn't help thinking the Vigil was a very impressive sight, just like the Wardens it played host to... The great granite walls jutted squarely up for at least two storeys, and the whole Vigil was arrayed along the hillside so that the inner walls stuck up even higher, from a rocky ridge, and behind them, the keep itself towered over the surrounding plains, round turrets and parapets surveying the entire arling, as Warden flags billowed overhead. The dark, greying sky was a rather ominous frame, but then, blue skies and sunshine wouldn't have been fitting for a place as bloody and fabled as Vigil's Keep. Even in the Free Marches, they had heard the stories of her defence, during the Battle for Amaranthine. The tales of the Grey Wardens and the Silver Order, holding the walls against the darkspawn horde for days on end, had been very popular amongst the Ferelden underclass in Kirkwall.

Something was amiss, though, just as sod's law dictated it should be. There were a dozen banners fluttering along the outer wall, royal blue Warden banners – that was normal enough, but the flags _within_ the courtyard, the ones with flaming swords? Sara's stomach dropped as she recognised the templar colours, just visible through the Vigil's gates...

The Warden-Commander had stiffened in his saddle, a furious expression working its way across his features. Nathaniel too was biting his lip in dismay, and Carver's right hand was straying from the reins, to his greatsword...

"Someone's coming out," Nathaniel hissed. Sure enough, a small figure darted out through the open gates – were it not for the keen-eyed archer's alert, Sara would never have even _seen _the figure as it approached.

Passing out of the shadows and into the half-light that surrounded the Vigil, the figure became clearer – a dwarf, with a dagger on each shoulder and a worried expression on her tattooed face.

"Sigrun," Tyran murmured, with an air of urgency. "What the hell's going on?"

"Templars," the dwarf replied, bug-eyed.

"I figured _that _out," the Warden-Commander snapped, still relegating his voice to a furtive whisper. "Who? Why?"

"It's Knight-Commander Caelyd," Sigrun sighed. "He's got a dozen templars with him, and he won't even tell us why he's here. Varel's trying to stall him, but he says he'll only speak to you..."

"Caelyd? I was hoping that bastard would have packed off to the Free Marches by now... hasn't he got more mages to murder?"

All in all, it wasn't the _most _encouraging conversation Sara could have been hearing. Her only previous experience of Knight-Commanders had been Meredith, and from the distasteful manner in which Cousland was discussing _this _one, he seemed to be of the same breed...

"Do you think he's here about Kirkwall?" Tyran mused.

"Could be..." Sigrun muttered, fearfully, biting her lip. "We hid our... guests in the servants' quarters, in case he asks to inspect the barracks."

"If he asks to 'inspect' anything of ours, I'll kick him out on his arse," the Warden-Commander growled. "He's got no authority here..."

There was a moment's indecision in his eyes, before he continued:

"Sigrun, Nathaniel, take these two to Amaranthine. With any luck, you'll make it before sundown. Nathaniel, do you think your sister would put them up for a night?"

"Possible," the archer nodded. "Del's always good with company, she'll take pity on them..."

Sara didn't particularly fancy being _pitied_, but she didn't protest – to his credit, neither did Carver. There was a tone of urgency in the commander's voice that said he wasn't to be questioned, not now, at least.

"Okay, saddle up, and leave _quietly_, lest they hear the horses. I'll go have a word with the blasted Knight-Commander..."


	5. The First Night

**Chapter 5**

**The First Night**

"Warden-Commander Tyran..."

"Knight-Commander Caelyd... to what do we owe the _honour?_"

An icy silence filled the courtyard for a few moments. Tyran had just marched through the main gates, and had come to stand with Varel and a few Wardens at his back, staring fiercely at the party of templars now trespassing in his fortress. More specifically, he was glaring at the man at their head – much as he hated Knight-Commander Caelyd, he couldn't truthfully describe him as a ratty, odious man, although that was the mental image he replaced the templar with. He was a tall, rather strapping man, with a shock of dirty blond hair and a fierce jaw. Anyone but a Grey Warden would have been afraid or awed at the sight of him, but the Warden-Commander had perfected a way of looking down on him, despite being the same height.

"Just a... passing visit," the Knight-Commander smiled, coolly, and they both knew he was lying. "But while I'm here, I might as well take stock of certain loyalties."

"And what _loyalties_ would these be?" the Warden-Commander growled, folding his arms testily. He'd been riding almost non-stop since midnight, he ached all over, and he didn't have time for the templar's games...

"Yours, of course. To Ferelden."

"It's not your place to test _those _loyalties," he snapped back. "Loyalty to the Chantry, yes, but Ferelden, no..."

"They're one and the same," Caelyd replied, icily. "Need I remind you that Ferelden's king is a templar?"

"Alistair _was _a templar, and I happen to know he didn't much care for it. What he _is_ isa Grey Warden. I'd remind you of _that_, Knight-Commander..."

Caelyd gave him a fierce, fiery glare, and simply stared him down for a moment. Tyran met his gaze stonily, and let his hand stray to his sword hilt.

"At any rate," the templar smirked, turning to his fellows as if for schoolyard support, "you didn't answer, _Warden_." His hand was resting on his own blade, to match Tyran's...

"It's not our place to be involved in politics, _templar_," he spat back. "So to the Chantry, to _you?_ No loyalty... But for the people of Ferelden, and our brother the king? We would lay down our lives..."

There was a vehement, unreadable expression on the templar's face, before he repeated: "Loyalty to Ferelden is loyalty to the Chantry."

"Tell that the Divine back in Val Royeaux," Tyran retorted. Then he straightened up, and scowled, "Leave, Caelyd, you know you'll find no support here."

"Interesting..." Caelyd murmured.

"What's _interesting?_"

"There are _certain parties_ within our order," the Knight-Commander continued, turning on his heel, "who believe the Grey Wardens are nothing but a haven for heretics and maleficarum. I'd have thoughtyou might want to prove them wrong."

Quite to the surprise of everyone around him, the Warden-Commander began to laugh, a dark, sarcastic laugh without a hint of mirth.

"So _that's _what this is about," he chuckled, quite to Caelyd's chagrin. "You know damn well we're allowed to take apostates, Knight-Commander. Take it up with the Divine if you don't like it..."

"I know you are _allowed _to," the other man glared, fixing his hand on his sword hilt in what he must have thought was a threatening gesture, but was actually just arrogant and rather petulant. "What casts a shadow on you is the fact that you _do_, with alarming frequency."

"We take the best, no less. If you'd actually let your Circle mages learn something, they might have been an alternative. Too late now, though, isn't it?"

The templar's brow tightened, and he fixed a cold stare on the Warden-Commander.

"Taking 'our' mages is no better. The fact remains that you withdraw these damned souls from the care of the Chantry, withdraw them from the templars who guard them from demons-"

"And enter them into the hands of those _infinitely _better equipped to do so," Tyran interrupted.

It was Caelyd's turn to laugh, this time. He scoffed, and drew closer, muttering:

"Do you _really _believe that, Warden-Commander?"

"My men actually _know _an abomination when they see it," he replied, cuttingly. "They don't just kill every apostate in sight. And they don't need to be fed lyrium to keep their loyalty."

"No, you use _darkspawn blood _instead," the templar smirked, and Tyran was unable to stop his expression faltering. How the _hell _did Caelyd know about the Joining?

"The fact remains," Tyran continued, setting his face back to a steady glare, "that any Warden can defeat a templar. By extension, we can defeat an abomination – if you can do it, then the best warriors in Thedas can surely do it better..."

"A Warden can defeat a templar? Ha!"

"You have doubts? Would you care to test them, Knight-Commander?"

Tyran let the tiniest sliver of his blade slide out of its sheath, threateningly, and the templar stared at him as if tempted to accept the duel. After a moment, however, he seemed to reconsider, and turned on his heel.

"The _faithful _have better things to do than fight with heathens," he growled. "We shall depart, Warden-Commander, but I would advise you to take a long, hard look at your loyalties, if not as a Warden, then as an arl... We may not be so forgiving in the future."

Quite suddenly, the Warden-Commander snapped. He slid his blade free, spun it in his hand, and brought it to rest at the back of Caelyd's neck, the tip just kissing the templar's flesh. The other man stopped dead, and a guttural snarl escaped him, as Tyran murmured:

"There is nothing to forgive, Knight-Commander. You have no power here. Threaten the Grey Wardens again, and I shall hang your corpse from the walls..."

Caelyd didn't reply – he reached back and batted the Warden's sword away, coldly, before striding off without a backward glance. His templars, on the other hand, looked _very _perturbed – some of them were glaring at the Warden-Commander, others were glancing fearfully at him, but eventually they all turned, and followed their commander out of Vigil's Keep.

"You shouldn't have done that, commander," came Varel's doubtful mutter, as the templars departed. "The templars are frenzied, we can't afford to draw their ire..."

"They wouldn't actually _do _anything, would they?" a female Warden behind Varel asked, tentatively. "They wouldn't dare!"

"Greagoir wouldn't have," the Warden-Commander agreed. "He knew the price of crossing us, and at any rate, he didn't want to... Caelyd, though? He's zealous enough to see us as enemies, and arrogant enough to think hecan defeat us."

"What do you propose, commander?"

"Send a messenger bird to Ser Rylien, in the Amaranthine Chantry. Tell her the Knight-Commander is on his way, and will need calming down. Also, send one to Delilah Howe – a formal request for her to shelter her brother and his companions when they arrive. If Caelyd is headed for Amaranthine, the Hawkes will need to be hidden well..."

"Very good, commander. What do we do about our guests in the servants' quarters?"

"I'll find some rooms for them," the Warden-Commander decided, after a moment's pause. "I think we need to find out just who they are..."

Ψ

Several miles from Vigil's Keep, the four departing travellers were plodding slowly along what remained of the Pilgrim's Path, having failed to make it to the end before sundown. Amaranthine lay in sight, however, and it was odd to see the shining city sitting on plains dominated by little farmhouses, fields and drainage ditches. The walls were illuminated by torch bearers, who were holding out against the rain much better than those at the Vigil – it was thinner here, although she had the oddest sensation that the swirling storm was tailing them along the road.

"Hey!" Nathaniel hissed, suddenly. He was sat just in front of Sara on the horse, and his hoarse whisper filled her ears, as he continued, "Torches on the road behind us!"

"How many?" Sigrun asked, swivelling around on the back of Carver's horse to watch the road – as Sara turned her head to look too, she could see at least half a dozen torches, moving fast towards them, and bobbing up and down in a manner that suggested horses and riders...

"A dozen horsemen," the other Warden murmured in reply. Then, he seemed to straighten up with realisation, and swore aloud, "Andraste's breath! The templars must be riding to Amaranthine for the night."

"Can we outride them?" Carver suggested.

"Probably, but it would be suspicious to say the least," Nathaniel sighed. "We start galloping at the sight of the templars? They'd want to know why."

"But we can't let them catch up!" the younger man protested. "They'll recognise Sara, and then they'll _kill us!_"

Nathaniel swivelled around in the saddle to face her, and bit his lip in consideration – whatever they did, it would have to be fast, because the glimmering torches were growing closer, as were the horses and riders beneath them.

Then, quite slowly, Hawke saw Nathaniel's gaze flicker to one side – it passed over the side of the road, and he turned to look at her, somehow mixing a stoic stare with a mischievous grin...

"Oh no," she muttered, catching on. "No _way_."

"You need to hide," he pointed out, apologetically.

"Yes, but-"

Before she could finish her sentence, the archer had swung around, grabbing her under both arms and hurling her off the horse. Only the presence of the templars made Sara stifle her shriek as she plunged down through the air, hit the road, bounced-

And slid straight into the irrigation ditch that bordered the adjacent field. With a noise best described as _sploosh_, she thudded down in the few inches of water that filled the bottom, and let out a little cough of surprise as her head banged against the side – not terribly, but just enough to daze her.

As her senses slowly returned, she stared up into the dark sky, silently praying she was out of sight. From here, she could hear the templars' gallop reverberating through the earth into her very _nerves_, and – wait, what was _that?_

A pair of beady black eyes were staring back out of the water, and a furry nose twitched in the cold. Great. Rats. She chased the furry sod off with a tiny – and hopefully silent – burst of magic, then set her senses back to the road above. The gallopers were slowing, and she could only pray that Nathaniel was good at making excuses...

Ψ

"Hail, travellers!"

With a slight gulp, Nathaniel swung his horse around, bringing it to a halt as the templars reached their backs. To his left, Carver was still atop the second horse – now sporting a full-face helm to cover his identity, courtesy of Sigrun – and the little dwarf was perched behind him.

"Hail!" he shouted back, then added, "Who exactly am I hailing?"

"The Templar Order," came the reply – Knight-Commander Caelyd's blond-framed face emerged out of the darkness, backed by at least a dozen armoured forms. "Who might you be?"

"Grey Wardens," Nathaniel muttered back – as he did, he was _praying _Tyran hadn't pissed them off enough to seek revenge... To his great relief, Caelyd simply frowned – as he always did at the presence of Wardens – and continued:

"I see. I've just had business at your keep... What brings you this way?"

"We're taking a message from the Warden-Commander," he lied. "The Felicisima Armada hit a caravan up on Aralt Ridge – we thought we'd warn the patrols they were raiding around there, and let the merchant's guild inform their kin."

"Commendable," Caelyd nodded. "Not many would venture in the night for such a task. You are welcome to ride with us – safety in numbers, no?"

There was a glimmer in the Knight-Commander's eyes, as if he were hoping to catch them out with the request. That meant that, unfortunately, there was only one response Nathaniel could give...

"Of course, it would be our pleasure."

"Sir, are you sure about this?" Sigrun interjected. The very first thing Nathaniel noticed was that she had called him _sir_ – while technically true, now he was the commander's second, she only ever called him that in two situations. In the first, she said it sarcastically, while criticising him. In the second, she said it earnestly, not wanting to use his name – to keep his identity from the templars, for instance, so they couldn't check up on him later...

"Objection?" Caelyd murmured, before the Grey Warden could reply.

"You're moving at a fair pace," the dwarf bluffed, quickly. "We'd be hard-pressed to keep up."

"We could stand to reach Amaranthine a little earlier," Nathaniel reasoned, then added, very deliberately, "We'll attend to our business in the city, then _return this way. _We could be back at the Vigil by dawn..."

"Fair enough," Sigrun agreed. Nathaniel was just praying Sara had heard his words, and understood their meaning...

"Shall we be off, then?" the templar chipped in. "If you're in a haste..."

"Yes," the Warden nodded. "After you, Knight-Commander..."

Ψ

Sodding Nathaniel. Sodding templars. Sodding _ditch_.

As she continued mentally _sodding _everyone who she saw as responsible for her being sat in a wet, freezing ditch, Sara Hawke was finally getting time to think. Well, _between _the soddings she was. One thought in particular was throbbing in the back of her mind with its enormity:

She was _back in Ferelden_. And she wasn't sure whether that filled her heart with joy or fear... True, she had always _wanted _to return – she had said as much on that warm evening when Fenris asked, and she had said the same to King Alistair upon his visit to Kirkwall. But the circumstances were less than ideal...

It wasn't so much the war, the explosion of templars and mages. It was the _absence _of the war, now they were away from it. To be honest, it was hard to explain, even to herself... The tragedies in Kirkwall had raised terrible questions within her, but previously, she had always been able to suppress them by focusing on their flight, and their fear of the templars. Now, though, she was safe. She was sat in the bottom of a soggy ditch, and the rain was starting to pour down on her, but she was _safe _– her friends were sleeping in a formidable stone keep, protected by the finest soldiers in Ferelden, and she was now waiting for those same Grey Wardens to take _her _to their protection too. With that safety, came time alone with her thoughts, and they were tearing her apart.

Mostly, now, she thought of Anders. Since Kirkwall, the single greatest doubt in her mind had taken his form. She had seen him as both man and spirit during their time together, but now, she saw neither. Rightly or wrongly, she saw a demon. All the years she had loved him, she had put up with his misdemeanours, she had accepted who he was, she had taken in his lessons of mages and spirits... But in the end, he had failed to take her lesson of mercy, the one she had given to all her companions. He had chosen his own ideals over everything else.

She couldn't criticise him for that, though, could she? It would be hypocritical... Fenris had done the same, and she had killed him – she had saved him from slavery, from himself, from his former master... and then she had killed him, her own brother spilling the elf's blood over the Gallows. Sebastian had done the same too, and she had sent him away – no, she had _allowed _him to walk away, not stopping him, even as he swore to bring his armies against the innocent people of Kirkwall. Her double standards became triple when she considered Anders – she had forgiven him, taken him to her side, professed her _love _for him...

A love that was no longer there, she realised, rather suddenly. Returning here, meeting the Wardens... it had been the final blow to her faith in him. In all the years she had known him, his status as a Warden had been the bedrock, the redeeming, defining truth – Wardens were brave, and strong, and loyal, and so he must be too, at heart... But he _wasn't _a Warden, Tyran Cousland had made that perfectly clear. The real Wardens hated him, and what did _that _say about his character? Their bravery, strength and loyalty – was he the opposite of those things, for them to hate him so? Even Nathaniel, who had greeted him so warmly in the Deep Roads, had met him with a cold stare in these less desperate times.

Her thoughts were cut off by the clatter of hooves, and a touch of serendipity. The jangle of stirrups preceded the _crunch _of boots on the road above – she was half-considering readying a spell, before a familiar face appeared over the edge of the ditch.

"_Maker_..." Nathaniel sighed, shaking his head. "Are you alright, my lady?"

"_Just fine_," she scowled. "What took you so long?"

"The Knight-Commander," he growled back. "I swear he was trying to catch our bluff... he insisted on sending a couple of men with us to our meeting with the guard. _That _took an hour, and they wouldn't leave until we were 'safely in our beds', by their own words. I couldn't go to my sister, or they'd know where to check up on us, so we paid for rooms at the inn, waited for them to retreat to the Chantry, then snuck out..."

"Why would he do that?" Sara asked, trying to stand but failing – her legs were numb from the cold water they lay in.

"I don't know" – with a grunt, Nathaniel swung his legs over the edge of the ditch and dropped down next to her, splashing her arm with the dubious water as he did – "but I don't like it... He kept asking about the Warden-Commander – I think Tyran might have done something stupid..."

"He didn't seem like a very _stupid _man."

"The _really _stupid ones never do... Tyran's a great man, and a finer warrior you'll never find, but he has a habit of letting his temper take over. That's good, when you're a berserker on the battlefield. Not so good when you're dealing with the banns. Now, come on..."

He punctuated the last words by slipping a muscular arm under her back and heaving her to her feet. With a slow, deliberate effort, the two of them clambered up the side of the ditch, scrabbling against roots and rocks until they fell onto the road above.

"Come on," Nathaniel repeated, jumping to his feet and pulling her with him. "If we ride fast, we can be back in Amaranthine before the hour's out..."

Ψ

"Maker's breath, Nathaniel, what did you _do _to the girl?"

"Nothing!" he protested, wilting under his little sister's glare.

'_The girl'_, Sara, was huddled in the next room, shivering beneath a heavy woollen blanket. She and Nathaniel had made it back to Amaranthine in less than an hour, but the fast ride had done nothing to counteract the water soaking into her clothes and skin, and the poor thing was almost _blue _by the time she staggered into Delilah's house at his side.

"She's almost frozen!"

"Well he _did _throw her in a ditch," Carver pointed out, tactlessly.

"YOU DID _WHAT?_" Delilah screeched, and Nathaniel took a step back out of regard for his life...

"It was that or let the templars find her," he reasoned.

"Alright..." she murmured, suddenly very calm. "What are you going to do tomorrow?"

"Ride back to the Vigil," Nathaniel muttered, instantly. "The sooner we get back there, the better."

"Agreed. I got a message from your commander, just after you left... Albert, have we still got the bird?"

"S'on the sill," her husband called back, good-naturedly.

Del bustled to the window, grabbed the protesting pigeon that was tethered to the sill, and plucked a little roll of parchment from its leg, before returning and handing it to her brother.

"Maker..." he sighed, as he read it. "This isn't good."

"What isn't?"

"They almost came to blows – the commander drew his sword and threatened Caelyd with it... This really doesn't help matters."

"Why?" Delilah asked, suspiciously. "What's happening?"

"At this rate?" Nathaniel replied. "We're going to war..."


	6. The Verdict

**Chapter 6**

**The Verdict**

* * *

"Come in, Varric."

With a suspicious expression plastered across his face, the dwarf pushed open the door to the Warden-Commander's study, and stepped inside.

His immediate impression was that this was a seat of power – his keen eyes roved over Cousland's desk, and the first three letters he spotted bore the King of Ferelden's crest, the Divine's seal, and what he presumed to be the First Warden's insignia. Tyran Cousland, it seemed, was even more important than he had imagined...

"Drink?" the Warden-Commander murmured, holding out a misty glass bottle, filled with honey-brown liquor.

"What is it?" Varric muttered, cannily.

"Well it's not poison, for a start," Cousland frowned, good-naturedly.

"Hey, you never know," the dwarf shrugged.

"Varric, what _possible _reason could I have for poisoning you? Isabela vouched for the lot of you, you've got nothing to fear from me. I just want to know exactly _who _I'm defending."

"Alright... so, what _is _it?"

"Chasind sack mead. A chieftain in the Wilds gave me some when I recruited one of his tribe to the Wardens, and he's kept up the habit every time I visit..."

"You visit the _Chasind?_"

"Of course... We patrol the Wilds every few months, seeing as the last Blight started there, and the Chasind tribes know the Wilds better than anyone – we pass through a village on the border, take a couple of guides, then return and spend a night with them on our way back home. You won't find more gracious hosts in all of Ferelden..."

"Each to their own... is the mead good?"

"Better than Orzammar's," the Warden-Commander replied, casually. "Less dirt in it, anyway."

"I never understood that..." Varric trailed off, laughing weakly. He was beginning to understand just what made Cousland so influential – he had a way of disarming you with casual chit-chat, and it was scarily effective.

"Listen," the Warden-Commander murmured, suddenly wearing an expression of supreme gravity, "Isabela tells me you're a... self-confessed storyteller. So tell me... what do the taverns and inns think happened in Kirkwall?"

"The templars pressed the mages, the mages didn't like being pressed..." he mused, starting off on a flowing tangent, "so the mages pushed back. The harder they pushed, the more the templars pressed. Finally, the templars pressed too far, and the Circle rose up. The Chantry was destroyed, the Grand Cleric killed... The Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter killed each other, and the Champion just... disappeared into the night."

The Warden-Commander made a noise best described as a _hmm_, and once he was sure Varric had finished, slid a small cup towards him. A round of mead sat within, and the dwarf gulped it down gratefully, as Tyran continued to fix him with that piercing, appraising stare of his...

"What really happened, Varric?" the commander asked, finally. It was the question Varric had been dreading.

"How long have you got?" he replied, trying to deflect the question.

"Tomorrow? As long as it takes," Cousland sighed. "But tonight? Just tell me who was to blame, so I know I'm not sheltering them."

"That's... not an easy one to answer, Warden. You could spin this on anyone, _including_ me."

"How so?"

"That bloody idol," Varric muttered, more to himself than to Tyran.

"What?" Cousland frowned, leaning in closer.

"You know we sent an expedition into the Deep Roads?" he replied, cannily – he knew damn well the Warden-Commander knew, and sure enough:

"Yes. Nathaniel led a mission to follow your expedition's route... And you already know that, Varric – Hawke was the one responsible for his returning alive. Why ask if _I _knew if you already knew I knew?"

The dwarf's face was blank for a moment – the babbled sentence that had just emerged from Cousland's mouth was truly confusing. Finally, however, he shrugged, and said:

"Just checking. Honesty's hard to come by."

"I'll assume I've passed that test. This expedition of yours... Why bring it up? It was... inconsequential, as far as I can see. It may have given Hawke money, but her status wasn't earned until the qunari assault – that's what Isabela said, at least..."

"We found an idol," Varric blurted out, after grappling with his conscience for a strangely short period of time. "Pure lyrium, red as nug's blood. I'd never seen anything like it."

"_Pure _lyrium?" the Warden-Commander interrupted, dubiously. "Are we talking about pure lyrium _ore_, or processed lyrium?"

"Processed," the dwarf replied, "but not like any I've ever seen. Not that I've seen much, surface dwarf and all... anyway, Hawke and me found it, and my late brother came to see what we'd found-"

"_Late_ brother?" Cousland muttered, interrupting once more in that decidedly human, _very _frustrating manner that Hawke had also perfected.

"Late of four years, and I'm getting to that. Anyway, my _late _brother took one look at the idol and ran with it – he stole it, locked us in a damn thaig, and headed for the surface. We broke out and got back to Kirkwall, but he was long gone..."

"You broke out of a locked thaig?" the Warden-Commander interjected, with what _seemed _to be a tone of admiration. "That doesn't seem possible. How did you manage it?"

"I had Hawke with me," Varric chuckled. "She's quite good at doing the impossible – same as you, if all the stories I hear are true..."

"Most of them aren't. For example, I _did _have a sword when I fought Urthemiel," Tyran smiled. "Contrary to popular, drunken wisdom, I didn't beat him to death with my bare hands."

"And the truth emerges," the dwarf grinned – as ever, Tyran's mood was infectious, and it happened to be mirth at this moment in time. Sarcastically, he continued: "You're not actually that tough at all, are you?"

"Complete coward," Tyran sighed, shaking his head in mock shame. Then, quite suddenly, his face went back to its grave, inquisitorial stare. "But, you were telling me about this idol...?"

"Right... He brought it back to Kirkwall, but he fled not long after, to Rivain I think. I guess he was afraid we'd catch up to him somehow. He sold the idol at some point, I don't know when, but then, after three years, he came back."

"Why?"

"Addiction. The idol drove him insane, Warden. He was... hearing voices, songs... he talked about the idol like it was a person."

"Songs, you say?" the Warden-Commander murmured. "That sounds familiar."

"_What?_"

"The song of the Old Gods is a popular complaint of those suffering from the darkspawn taint," Cousland explained, leaning back in his chair and looking thoughtful. "From what little we know, it's what compels the darkspawn to find the Old Gods and... well, create an Archdemon."

"_Create _an Archdemon?"

"I don't have time enough to explain, Varric... maybe once this is all settled, I can try. If our knowledge of the Blights spreads through the taverns... well, it would be no bad thing for people to have a little more understanding of our task, and maybe a little more appreciation... But, I'm getting distracted. The point remains, that _song _your brother described is... similar to that heard by those who are tainted. The darkspawn themselves, infected ghouls, Wardens who-"

He stopped suddenly, coughed, and fell silent. The warning glint in his grey eyes told Varric not to press the matter, and after a moment, the Warden continued:

"But you said your brother died four years ago... Without wishing to cause offence, he seems irrelevant to the world of templars and mages. Why bring him up at all?"

"He died four years ago..." Varric began, beginning on an aside but working his way towards the crux of the matter, "at my hands. When Hawke and I heard Bartrand was back in town... let's just say we both wanted some answers, and a spot of vengeance. We broke into his estate, killed his guards, and cornered him. He was insane, like I said, and in the end I put him out of his misery. Before he died, though, he told us why he came to Kirkwall – he _sold _the idol, Warden."

"Who to?" was the commander's immediate response.

"That's what I tried to figure out. I spent a year dragging up everything I could, but there wasn't a damn trace of the thing to be found – in the end, I just figured he'd offloaded it in Rivain, and I'd never find out who bought it."

"You know now, though, don't you?" Cousland guessed, shrewdly.

"Oh yes..." Varric muttered, darkly. "It was Meredith."

"_Knight-Commander _Meredith?" the human replied, aghast.

"The very same. Crazy old bat had it forged into a sword – every time Hawke met with the Knight-Commander, the idol was _right _under her nose. None of us realised it, though..."

"How did you find out, then?"

"She told us. In the Gallows, when everything went to hell. She cornered Hawke and tried to kill us all. The sword, it... hell, she had powers I've never seen before. She was _flying_, Warden."

"Well, the taint doesn't do _that_," Tyran chuckled, sarcastically. "This is something else... what happened to the idol when Meredith died?"

"It was the idol that killed her..."

"_What?_"

"Look, she was hearing voices, same as Bartrand, only _she _thought it was the Maker talking. So, when Hawke kicked her ass, she tried to call on Him for help... and the thing exploded."

"If it was made of pure lyrium," Cousland mused, slowly, "it would have killed her instantly when it broke, no?"

"Well, not instantly," Varric muttered. "She did a fair bit of screaming first... in the end, she was just... I don't know what to call it. She was all twisted and on fire... it was a blur, and we didn't exactly hang around to see what happened to her after that. We fled the city right after that."

"So, to summarise," the Warden-Commander mused, "this one little idol brought Kirkwall crashing to its knees?"

"Pretty much," he shrugged. "It drove Meredith insane. The clampdowns, the executions... Meredith was always harsh, but the idol made her _paranoid_. She saw enemies in every corner, and the more she tried to strike at them, the more it pissed her enemies off. With someone _that _insane all but taking the viscount's throne... what happened was inevitable, and it was my fault."

"How do you figure _that?_"

"I brought Hawke onto the expedition. Without her, Bartrand and I never would have made it to the idol – hell, we might not have even made it to the _Deep Roads _without her finding Anders. If I hadn't brought her into the fold, Bartrand would have never gotten his hands on the idol, and neither would Meredith."

"With or without the idol," Cousland murmured, "something like this has been in the making for centuries. Hell, it almost happened here in Ferelden, during the Blight..."

The great warrior trailed off there, and got to his feet, turning to stare wistfully out of his study's window. There was a pensive look in his eye that Varric didn't like, but as before, the dwarf knew better than to ask.

"Thank you, Varric, I've heard all I need from you. You can go."

* * *

As she traipsed into the Warden-Commander's study, Merrill was even more cautious than Varric had been – ironically, she didn't know her dwarven friend had made this same trip not an hour before. The main reason for her caution was simply the Warden-Commander himself. For all the stories of his good virtue, for all the warm tones in which Isabela talked about him, he was a fearsome man to behold. Tattooed face, piercing eyes, and a physique which made even _Carver _look diminutive... he was a beast of a man, and she felt sorry for anyone who had to fight him, let alone face him.

"Sit down, Merrill," he instructed, from the window. His back was still to her, and his tone was imperious, albeit with a warm, slightly friendly edge.

As the elf took her seat, perching on the tiniest sliver of the chair's edge and staring warily at him, the Warden-Commander swept around and came to sit on the opposite side of the desk. He was fixing her with those tough grey eyes once more, and she found herself compelled to break eye contact, instead staring at her feet nervously.

"I need to ask you a few questions, Merrill. About Kirkwall – I want to know what happened..."

"Then why are you asking me?" she replied, quietly. "Why not Hawke? She was in the middle of it all..."

"Hawke's not here," he muttered, "and I need to know by the morning."

"Isabela, then!" Merrill argued. "Or Varric! They love telling stories..."

"I don't want stories, I want _facts_. More importantly, I need your point of view."

"_Why?_" she persisted.

"Because you're a mage," he answered, flatly. "I need a mage's view of this crisis, and you're the only one who might answer honestly – from what I hear, Hawke would go to the noose to protect you all, and Anders wouldn't speak an honest word to me if his life depended on it..."

_Hawke would go to the noose to protect you all_. Did the Warden-Commander know something already? Why else would he presume Hawke had someone to protect? Or maybe it was a bluff... or a double bluff... or even the fiendish _triple _bluff that playing cards with Isabela had taught her to be wary of.

"How do you know I'm a mage?" she asked, finally, and rather quietly.

"Isabela told me."

"Oh."

"In her defence, I already knew... she just confirmed my suspicions."

"How did you _already know?_" Merrill murmured, brow furrowing.

"Your tattoos are Dalish," the commander began, "and you're carrying a staff. The only Dalish who use staves are mages – a Keeper or, I suspect, a First..."

Merrill nodded, meekly, rather impressed by his knowledge of her people.

"I was – am – a First to the Sabrae clan. No, _was_. Wait... are you still a First, even if you get exiled?"

"Surely _you _should know the answer to that," Cousland frowned.

"You'd think..."

"So... Kirkwall?"

"What do you want to know?" Merrill sighed. She had come to the conclusion that it was pointless, even detrimental not to answer his questions. He was an engaging man, but she didn't want to test his purportedly short temper, and there was nothing to be gained from lying to him, especially as he was the one sheltering them from the templars...

"One simple question," he muttered. "Whose fault was it?"

"Whose fault was what?" she replied, genuinely lost. The conversation was proceeding rather rapidly, and she was struggling to keep up.

"Everything," the Warden-Commander answered, succinctly. "The fighting, the deaths, the destruction... someone had to be at the bottom of it all – who was it?"

After what felt like an eternity of considering the question, Merrill replied:

"The templars, I suppose..."

"You suppose?"

"Well, they all did bad things, I know they did, but you can't blame the mages – I mean I know mages dangerous, but that's when we're possessed and the templars weren't fighting abominations, they were fighting-"

"Woah there," he interrupted. "Slow down..."

"Sorry I'm babbling again – I always do that... Argh, and again..."

"Just... answer me slowly, then," Cousland murmured, with a surprisingly gentle tone to his voice. "The mages who fought the templars were regular Circle mages – they weren't maleficarum or abominations?"

"No. Well, not until the templars attacked. When they did... a lot of good people turned to a lot of bad things."

"Then the templars forced their hand?"

"Of course they did! Wouldn't you fight back if someone tried to kill you?"

"A fair point... what was it like _before _that, though? Were the mages treated badly?"

"Worse than the Alienage..." Merrill murmured, sadly. "I mean, they kept them in a place called the _Gallows! _Every time we went there, there were more and more Tranquil, too..."

"And yet you and Hawke visited the Gallows regularly? Anders too? If the treatment of mages was so bad..."

"We were safe as long as we were with Hawke," she sighed. "Nobody wanted to cross her, not even Meredith."

"So what changed? What did the mages do to provoke her?"

"Nothing! It was just... it couldn't have been helped! Whatever happened, whatever they did, Meredith was always going to end it like that... maybe she was planning it all along..."

"Interesting..." Cousland mused. "Varric was certain it had something to do with his idol, driving Meredith to insanity, but you think she planned the outcome even before that?"

"You talked to Varric?" Merrill murmured, brow furrowing in surprise. "Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"Because I want individual explanations, not a collective story. If I _had _told you, you would have followed along with whatever Varric said. Instead, you've given me your own version of events..."

The elf merely sat in silence, not quite sure whether to be relieved or angry. On the one hand, he wasn't singling her out, but on the other, he _had _deceived her. She didn't imagine she had much right to complain, though, so she merely stayed quiet, waiting for some further conversation.

"Thank you, Merrill, that's all I needed. You can go."

* * *

It had to be said, Aveline was far less nervous than her friends as she sat opposite the Warden-Commander. However important his status, however fearsome his stature, she could at least look him in the eye, for one simple reason:

"You served at Ostagar?" Cousland began, sure enough.

"The king's guard," she nodded.

"My condolences. You were fortunate to survive..."

"Very, but that was a long time, Warden. We've both come a long way since."

"That we have... Still, it's good to find a soldier to talk to among your band."

"My 'band' are all soldiers," she replied, frowning.

"No, they're _fighters_," the Warden-Commander insisted. "All fine in their own regard, but they're not soldiers, they haven't been trained and ordered like you have."

"A fair point, I suppose."

"I need to ask you about Kirkwall," he said, bluntly. "I understand you were captain of the guard?"

"I was."

"Then you must have been privy to most of what went on in the city, no?"

"You'd think, wouldn't you? The guard was practically powerless for the last three years. We took our orders from the viscount, and Meredith downright prevented another viscount from being elected."

"So you were left to fend for yourselves," Tyran nodded, "and I'm guessing the templars put pressure on you?"

"They tried to take control of the guard more times than I can count," Aveline sighed. "Sometimes politely, sometimes less so..."

"Then the templars were overstepping their bounds? They were responsible for the city's troubles?"

"Some of them," she replied, measuring her words. "But not all."

"Who else, then?"

"Where to begin? The nobles, the nationalists, Tevinter slavers, Raiders, the Carta, maleficarum..."

"A long list for a troubled city," Cousland laughed, darkly. "But I'm more interested in the... _climactic _events. The mage uprising, the death of the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander – whose fault was _that?_"

"Do you want my answer, the people's answer, or my friends' answer?" Aveline murmured, cannily.

"I want the truth," the Warden-Commander muttered. "As you see it."

"Very well... it was the mages' fault."

The surprise was visible on the commander's face – his brow furrowed instantly, and he replied:

"But you fought for them? Against the templars?"

"I fought for Hawke. We all did."

"I see..."

"I'm not saying the templars were _right_," she added, quickly. "They did horrendous things to the mages, and to the people of Kirkwall. They were in the wrong without a doubt. But the uprising wasn't their _fault_."

"The mages caused the uprising... but they were right to do so?" Cousland concluded, looking slightly bemused.

"I suppose so," Aveline nodded, suddenly trying to work out whether his words matched her own. "They initiated the fighting, but I don't think many would begrudge them doing so. Meredith was... well, evil is too strong a word, but she was certainly excessive. The problem is, the world doesn't see it that way."

"Very perceptive," the Warden-Commander smiled. "The templars outside Kirkwall are still respected, still an organ of the church. If they say the mages rose up of their own accord, the world will believe them. No matter how justified it may have been..."

He fell silent, rising and turning to the window. Night was beginning to shift into dawn twilight now, and it couldn't be more than a few hours to dawn.

"Guard Captain," he muttered, gesturing to the door over his shoulder.

"Warden-Commander," she nodded, before turning, and taking her leave.

* * *

Mere minutes after Aveline's departure, the Warden-Commander's attention was drawn by the noise of a pair of clicking heels behind his back. By his own estimate, they were rounding the corner, passing through his door... He waited until the boots' owner was just a few feet away, evidently thinking herself unheard, before calling:

"Isabela. Have you never heard of _knocking?_"

"Not my style," she murmured, drawing up to his side. "Now, what's got you so worried, Tyran?"

"Good to see you too, _please_ come in," he muttered, sarcastically. Then, more seriously, he continued: "What are you talking about, Isabela?"

"Alright, Tyran, I might not know you as well as I like to claim, but I know men _like _you. And men like you only ask this many questions when there's something bad about to happen..."

"How do you know I've been asking questions?" Cousland replied, somewhat petulantly.

"Oh _come on_. Varric and Merrill told me everything you said to them. And Aveline didn't even notice me by the door..."

"You were eavesdropping?"

"I prefer to think I was... curious," she shrugged, yet again flashing that very white, very brilliant smile. "So come on... why are you asking about Kirkwall so much?"

"Fine, you really want to know? I'm asking about Kirkwall, because it's tearing my world apart. What happened there... the mages, the templars, the Chantry... it wasn't confined to Kirkwall. It wasn't even confined to the Free Marches. The unrest is spreading here, and we're damn close to civil war, _again_. The king, the country, even our order... everything's at risk, and if I'm going to fight the templars, I need to be _untouchable. _No weak links, no dirty little secrets."

"And you think _we're _a dirty little secret?" Isabela concluded, with a slightly angry tinge to her voice.

"I _know _one of you is," he growled, rounding on her. "Three different witnesses, three different interviews, and three different explanations – Varric says the idol caused it all, Merrill says it was the templars, Aveline says it was the mages... and not one of them mentioned the bloody Chantry!"

"What?" she stammered, looking genuinely confused.

"The Chantry!" Tyran roared, and the pirate shrank back slightly as the levee of the Warden-Commander's exhausted temper finally broke. "You know, the big building full of priests that _somebody _destroyed! I'm not stupid, Isabela, I've already got a damn good idea who... what amazes me is that you're all protecting him, all covering it up!"

"He's one of us..." Isabela replied, firmly, and they both knew damn well who _he _was.

"Yeah, well he didn't pay much loyalty to _me_, did he? He'll abandon you just as quickly as he abandoned this order, and at this rate he'll get you all killed! I have to compete with the templarsfor support – they'll take one look at him, and find all the excuse they need to wipe us out!"

"So, what? You're going to kill him?"

"If he's lucky... But I need to hear you say it, Isabela. I need to hear _someone _say it besides myself. Who destroyed the Chantry? Who _murdered _the Grand Cleric?"

"I..."

He closed in, well aware that his eyes were ablaze with anger and his chest was heaving with ragged breath. He closed a hand as gently as possible around the pirate's wrist, holding her firmly in place as he repeated:

"Who was it, Isabela?"

In those few moments, a lifetime of emotions and contradictions seemed to pass over the woman's face – pride, loyalty, anger, sorrow, regret, and last of all, hardest of all, the twins reluctance and acceptance.

"Anders."

"Thank you..." he sighed, releasing his grip on her arm. "That's all I needed."

"He's still our friend, Tyran," she murmured sadly, as he turned to leave, and added, scathingly: "He used to be yours..."

"Don't for a _moment _think this is easy for me," the Warden-Commander muttered harshly, grabbing his sword from the rack on the wall. "But duty comes first. If the Anders I knew was still in there, he'd understand."


	7. The Reckoning

**Chapter 7**

**The Reckoning**

* * *

As he paced down the long, spiralling staircase to the Vigil's dungeons, Tyran was more than a little apprehensive. His sword was shaking, causing the blade held within to waggle through the air. Each step seemed to bring him a little closer to a confrontation he had previously thought would never come, and which he now wished never had…

"Warden-Commander," the guard on the door nodded, as he reached the base of the staircase. This particular guard was a Warden, not one of the Silver Hand – the… _unique _situation of his charge required something a little more than an ordinary soldier, after all.

"At ease, Warden," he replied. "I'll take it from here."

"Sir?" the Warden frowned. He was a young thing – a local boy by the name of Oswald, if he remembered rightly, recruited just a few weeks prior and still a little rusty. Of course, by the standards of most armies he was an exceptional swordsman – only amongst the Wardens was he in any way 'rusty'.

"Get some rest, son," Tyran muttered. "That's an order."

"I… yes, commander."

Oswald gave the briefest of nods, placed the torch in his hand back into the bracket on the wall, and departed, his armoured boots issuing a solid _clunk _each time they made contact with the stone steps.

Slowly, still hesitating with every pace forward, the Warden-Commander drew his own key from his belt, turned it in the lock with a satisfying _click_, and pushed aside the door, stepping through into the dungeons.

If he was perfectly honest, they weren't _bad_, for dungeons. He'd seen worse – Rendon Howe's torture chambers sprang to mind immediately – and these were almost _humane._ A single corridor of mottled, yellowing stone ran off in front of him, and set into the walls at equal intervals were a dozen grated metal doors, six on each side. Beyond that, the corridor split into a 'T' shaped fork, with fresh paths trailing off to left and right, and both, he knew, hosting even more cells.

He didn't need to go far to find his current guest, however. It had been months, maybe even a _year _since the Vigil had last held a prisoner, and Anders had been dumped close to the entrance, in the third cell along. As Tyran approached, he was sat there almost _patiently_, propping himself up on his arms and leaning against the wall. His staff was gone, taken from him and stacked against the wall adjacent to his cell door, and just as he had on the beach the day before, the mage looked… weak, _forlorn_, rather resigned…

"Anders," he muttered, tersely, as he pushed the cell door open.

"Commander," Anders replied, bitterly, not looking up from his studious observation of the wall.

There was an awkward silence, as the Warden-Commander stepped into his former ally's cell, sword _chink_ing off the metal doorframe as he did.

"I must say," the mage murmured, still looking dead ahead, "I'm loving the accommodation… Beds are overrated, hmm?"

"You deserve the best…" Tyran scowled, sarcastically.

"What's this about, commander? You're not here for a _social call_, so you must want to talk to me about something…"

"You know damn well what I want to talk about, Anders."

The mage paused, and looked up at him for the first time that day. He looked less _pitiful _now they were out of the rain. His hair had dried to a matted tangle, his robes were stained with dried salt spray, and his face… his face had gone from desperate to manic, with a dreadful spark of violence in his eye. The commander had to wonder if Anders was even still in there any more, or if the demon had taken control completely…

"I deserted _seven years ago_," Anders snapped. "You can't still be holding a grudge over _that_."

"I certainly can," the Warden-Commander growled.

"Oh, come on!" he protested, petulantly. "You got a _templar _to try and execute me, and I wasn't exactly in my right mind at the time!"

"I don't think you're in your right mind _now_. But we both know that's not what I'm here to discuss."

"No we don't!" the mage cried, a somewhat _manic _tone entering his voice as he did. "I don't have a _clue _what you're here for!"

"Sure you do," Tyran snarled, tightening his grip on his sword. "I'm here about what _you _did in Kirkwall."

A pause followed. Anders was silent, staring defiantly ahead. Clearly, the admission wasn't going to come easily…

"The Chantry…" he continued, keeping his voice calm and level.

"What about it?" Anders scoffed.

_Crunch._ Before either of them quite knew what the commander was doing, his instincts had compelled him to lash out with a steel boot, _cracking _it against the side of Anders' head and sending him sprawling to the floor, a bloody lump rising on his temple.

"The Chantry, Anders!" Tyran roared, sheer _fury _taking over proceedings. "I know it was you!"

"Know _what _was me?" the mage growled, remaining obstinate.

"Keep lying to me, and I will drive this sword through your heart," the Warden-Commander hissed, coldly. "I know you destroyed the Chantry!"

Silence. His knuckles went white on his sword hilt.

"It was the only choice…" his former friend murmured, _very _quietly.

"What?" Tyran persisted.

"IT WAS THE ONLY CHOICE!" a voice roared, issuing from between Anders' lips. It certainly _wasn't _Anders' voice, however, and there was a blue light burning in his eyes. It quelled after a moment, though, and in a timid mutter, the mage continued: "It was the only choice… they pushed us, commander. Drove us underground, hunted us, murdered us…"

"No, _they _didn't – the _Chantry _didn't. The templars did."

"They're one and the same."

"Not any more. And let me explain to you the key difference: you kill a templar, you kill _Meredith_, and Kirkwall knows why you did it. The people of Thedas know why you did it. Maybe some of them even support you. But you blow up the Chantry? You destroy any hope of mediation, and you destroy any _sympathy _the ordinary people might have had for _your _people. The rest of Thedas sees mages destroying the Chantry and turns against them. The mages are hunted across the land because of _your _actions, actions they never supported. And the only people who benefit, Anders? That would be the templars…"

More silence.

"You realise that, don't you? You _helped _the templars. You gave them the excuse they needed to annul the Circles, to break away from the Divine. You gave them the keys to Thedas, and now _I _have to hold them back, Anders!"

"If you're fighting the templars, why are you in here threatening _me?_" the mage spat.

"Because I am fighting to defend the _innocent_, not _you_. The templars can't get away with murdering innocent mages, but you _are _guilty. They could take you to the noose and be justified in doing so."

"So, what? You want to do it for them?"

"What I _want _is to make sure they can't use you against me, make sure they can't turn the people of Ferelden against my men, against your _friends_, for sheltering you. If you really want somebody to oppose the templars, then you'll know this has to be done – if you remain here, we lose any hope of uniting people against them."

"And what if I refuse to go?" Anders scowled.

"Then I'll kill you myself," Tyran replied, simply.

The reaction was a rather delayed one. For a few moments, the mage simply stared ahead once more, as if _willing _the wall in front of him to fall apart and allow him an escape. Then, blue fire began to well up behind his eyes. He turned to face the Warden-Commander, and there was an angry, _crackling _spark in his gaze.

Without warning, he lunged to his feet, face ablaze with blue fire and lightning, fist wrapped in a mass of flame. He swept forward, aiming for Tyran's head-

And the Warden-Commander was ready for him. He clenched his free fist, and a _flash _of white passed through the room. As suddenly as he had charged, Anders was falling back, screaming – white embers were hovering in the air, and the fire at his fingertips had reversed, shooting back up his arm and scalding him as it did… With a swing of his now-glowing arm, Tyran hurled him into the wall, and he slid down it ponderously, a horrible _gurgle _of blood appearing through his lips.

"Still playing at templar tricks?" he coughed, spitting out a wad of blood as he did, blue fire fading to leave the much smaller-looking mage in place of the abomination. "Isn't that a little hypocritical, commander?"

"Know your enemy," Tyran shrugged, moving in. "And they certainly help for dealing with fools like you…"

He levelled the silver tip of his sword at the mage's head, and continued:

"Are you going to go, or am I going to have to kill you?"

The mage didn't reply – he just pushed the blade away with a weak hand, staggered to his feet, and made for the door.

They were silent after that. Anders traipsed out into the corridor, turned right – not even _bothering _to ask for his staff as he did – and headed for the stairs. Tyran followed a few paces behind, blade still ready at the mage's back as they clambered up the stairs to the outside world.

Emerging into the open air, Tyran found dappled moonlight sweeping over his face. The silvery orb had appeared from behind the clouds, and was now hanging low in the sky, as, off in the opposite direction, the slightest of twilight purples began to bloom over the horizon. A new day was coming…

The two of them – the Warden-Commander and the Warden-deserter – traipsed out across the Vigil, boots sinking ever-so-slightly in earth that had been left soft by the previous day's rain. The dungeons were in the outer section of the fortress, and it took just a couple of minutes to reach the gates to the outside world. They were open, leaving a gaping void between those famous granite walls that Voldrik had built, but the void was guarded by half a dozen guardsmen – two on the gate, armed with pikes, and four more in the gatehouse above, wielding bows and crossbows. Not one of them said a word as Tyran and Anders passed by – everybody in Amaranthine could recognise the Warden-Commander, and everybody knew not to question his movements… They simply stood aside, and let him through.

They kept walking for another few minutes – off up the road between the burning torches that lit the way, clattering over the damp stones… Finally, as they crossed the brow of some non-descript ridge, a rise in the path, the Warden-Commander stopped dead. Moments later, Anders realised, and wheeled around to face him.

"You've got until dawn," Tyran muttered, stoically. "Stray near the Vigil after that – stray anywhere near _Amaranthine _after that – and my men _will _kill you."

"Then why not just do it now?" Anders scowled, "Get it over with…"

"To spite the templars," the Warden-Commander growled. "I won't stop them killing you, but I won't do their job for them, either."

There was another pause. The mage hesitated, as if torn between turning and leaving and… something else. Finally, he spoke up, _very _timidly:

"Can I at least say goodbye to Sara?"

"You already did," Tyran replied, coldly. "The Anders she loved – the Anders I called a friend – died in Kirkwall. And I hardly think she wants to say goodbye to a demon…"

Anders looked at his feet. Then he looked up at the commander. Then back to his feet. Finally, without a single word or a backwards glance, he turned on his heel, and began to trudge off along the road, head bowed low, feet dragging on the stone. The walk of a defeated man…

Tyran watched him for a while – watched him descend down the far slope of the ridge, watched him turn off the road… watched him disappear, into the distance. The first burning glimmers of sunlight were breaking over the horizon as he finally compelled himself to move. He slid his blade back into its scabbard, turned on his heel, and began to wind his way back to the Vigil…

* * *

By the time Sara Hawke and her companions returned to the Vigil, the sun was burning high in the sky. They had left Amaranthine that morning, on the realisation that the templars were there to stay, and the trip back from the city had been much quicker than the trip _to _it – even better, she _hadn't _ended up in a ditch.

As she rode into the Vigil, however, and a welcome party emerged to greet her, Sara couldn't help noticing that they all looked… well, a little perturbed to say the least. Nathaniel drew in his horse, tossed the reins to an obliging guardsman, and hopped lightly out of the saddle. A few moments later, he gave Sara a hand down, and her very first move was to stride over to her companions and say what seemed to have become her catchphrase:

"What's wrong?"

"It's… ah…" Aveline murmured, hesitantly.

"It's Anders," Isabela interjected, to the guardswoman's relief. "He was…"

* * *

"_Exiled?_" Sara yelled, storming into the Warden-Commander's study. "You _exiled _Anders?"

"Problem?" he murmured, barely looking up from his papers.

"Yes! What gives you the right to exile one of my people?"

"One of your people?" Tyran frowned, looking up at her at last. "Anders was a Warden long before he met you, Champion. As for the right… You are currently in _my _keep, guarded by _my _men, under _my _good graces. So if you happen to be hiding a murderer within your ranks, I think I'm well within _my _rights to send him on his way. He's just lucky I didn't run him through…"

She stared at him a moment, eyes alight with a righteous fire which quickly began to fade…

"You couldn't have waited a day?" she said eventually, staring at her feet.

"What would you have said to him?" the Warden-Commander replied, simply. "What _could _you have said?"

Silence once more. Sara stood before the arl's desk, head bowed low, and for some reason, a sense of immense calm came over her. She had known, deep down. She had known since Kirkwall. In a way, it was easier to have the Warden-Commander deal with it for her…

As she looked up, she allowed her eyes to rove around the room, and quite suddenly, something struck her. Tyran, who usually stood monolithic by the window, or sat stiffly behind his desk in appraising silence, was bustling around the study, throwing various belongings into a traveller's pack – a map and a few glass bottles were flung into the pack, while a heap of cloth, presumably a cloak, was laid out over the corner of the desk.

"Going somewhere?" she frowned.

"Denerim," he grunted, recovering his sword from the wall.

"And… the _second _cloak?" Sara asked, as she realised there were two in the pile on the desk…

"Yours," the Warden-Commander answered, with the slightest flicker of a grin.

"I just rode back from Amaranthine. I rode _to _Amaranthine the day before. I'm sore, I'm tired, and my bones ache. Now why would I go to Denerim with you?"

"Because you don't have a choice. Neither do I."

He slid a scroll of vellum across the table to her, gesturing for her to read it, but Sara barely noticed the cursive script – instead, she focused on the seal still clinging to the top of the parchment. Red wax, with a shield pressed into it, and two lions resplendent. She had seen it before, but where?

"It's the seal of the Theirin family," Tyran muttered, answering her unspoken question. "I received a summons to the court, and King Alistair requested _you_ personally."

"Why?"

"I don't know, Sara. He did talk about meeting you after his visit to Kirkwall. Perhaps you made an impression. You do seem to have a knack for making _powerful friends_."

"Powerful enemies, too…" she sighed. "When do we leave?"

"This evening. Spend a while with your friends, and meet me by the north gate when you're ready to depart…"


End file.
